


Creatures of the Wind, Part 3

by Sebastian_Jack



Series: Creatures of the Wind [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Assassination Plot(s), Daddy Issues, Domestic Fluff, Dysfunctional Family, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Letters, Love Letters, Magical Artifacts, Magical Tattoos, Multi, Novel, Piercings, Slow Burn, Smoking, Tattoos, Threesome - F/M/M, Twincest, Twins, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24816652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebastian_Jack/pseuds/Sebastian_Jack
Summary: The twins have dropped out of school, and the elder Lestranges have been returned to Azkaban. But Ophelia has one year left, and the Dark Lord has tasked her with helping Draco carry out a sinister plot.
Relationships: Fred Weasley/George Weasley/Other(s), Fred Weasley/Original Female Character(s), George Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Creatures of the Wind [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562572
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50





	1. Back Into the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE!!! We've begun part 3!!!

It was an unseasonably cold morning in London. The sky hung heavy with dark clouds, threatening to burst at any moment. There was a kind of cold, damp feeling that seemed to have draped itself over the world; blown in from the east on a cruel wind. And it was for that reason, among many others, that Ophelia Lestrange was so grateful to be inside of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

Being one of the last days of summer, the shop was as crowded as she’d ever seen it. The crush of people swarmed about like a single living thing; children dragged their haggard parents around by the hand, older teenagers moved in packs, setting off every available test product. She even spotted a few Hogwarts professors, trying and failing to hide the looks of wonder on their faces as they took in the sights, each more magnificent than the last. The air was thick with joy and laughter, with Fred and George wading through the sea of people as celebrities fending off rabid admirers. But, for once, Ophelia was not there to see them.

She spotted Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled around a display near the front counter. Hermione was scrutinizing the label of a Patented 30-minute Daydream Charm.

“‘One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable’,” she read aloud, “’Side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling. Not for sale to under-sixteens.’ You know, this really is extraordinary magic!”

“Isn’t it?” Ophelia agreed, stepping up behind them with the hood of her cloak pulled low.

They all jumped in shock. Hermione lost her grip on the Daydream Charm and it went spinning through the air, but Ophelia caught it deftly.

“Merlin’s beard, O!” Ron snapped clutching at his chest, “Should’ve known you’d be creeping about in here.”

“I’m so proud of them,” she beamed, carefully setting the Charm back in its place on the shelf and adjusting it just so, “They’ve just started a more serious line, as well, look—” Checking to make sure no one was watching, she led the trio over to the display of charm shields. It was a much more out-of-the-way corner of the shop, where they’d have less fear of eavesdropping.

“Blimey,” Ron remarked, wide-eyed.

“They started with the hats, just for a laugh, but then the Ministry bought up the entire inventory. Around 500 pieces, in all.”

“What?” Harry asked, “Why?”

Ophelia shrugged. “As it turns out, there are a lot of Ministry employees who can’t so much as cast a decent Shield Charm. Not the Aurors, mind you, or anyone who works in the field. But the office workers, and even a few of the real politicians. So, Fred and George saw a need, and they met it. Now there’s an entire line of Weasley’s Charm-Shielding cloaks, gloves, and boots. They’ve even made false eyeglasses.”

“Yeah, we can’t make ‘em fast enough!” George chimed in, suddenly appearing over Ophelia’s shoulder. Carelessly, he yanked her hood away and planted a rough kiss on her cheek. “When did you sneak in here, spooky?”

“Stop!” she scolded, shoving him away and quickly replacing her hood, “What are you thinking, out in front of people like this?”

George rolled his eyes mockingly. “No one is paying any attention.”

“Right,” Ron chuckled, “No one is looking at Harry bleeding Potter talking to a Death Eater in a joke shop.”

“Hey, shut up, Ron!” Fred scolded brightly, popping up beside them.

He and George were dressed that day in identical, bright magenta suits.

“Oh, why on earth did you wear that rubbish?” Ophelia groaned, “With the color of your _hair_ , Georgie—”

“ _Ooh, your_ hair _, Georgie!”_ the twins mocked in their overblown impression of her accent.

“This really is impressive,” Harry interrupted, looking around the shop, “You two seem to be doing alright for yourselves.”

“You want the grand tour?” Fred offered, sweeping an arm out for him, “Come on through the back, that’s where we’re making the real money— _Oi!_ Pocket anything, you, and you’ll pay with more than Galleons!” he suddenly snapped. Nearby, a small boy hastily whipped his hand out of the tub labeled ‘ _Edible Dark Marks — They’ll Make Anyone Sick!’_

“Modeled after a real live Death Eater, you know!” George divulged conspiratorially, elbowing Ophelia in the ribs before trotting off after Fred and Harry.

Hermione frowned in quiet disapproval, leaving to join Ginny by the display of Wonder Witch products.

Ron sighed, sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning back against the shelves. “How did you know we were here, then?” he asked idly.

She smiled, joining him against the shelves to survey the delightful chaos her lovers had wrought. “There are about a dozen Aurors and Order members tailing Harry around these days. I’m just the only one you’ve spotted.”

He looked up at her in surprise.

“Don’t tell Harry,” she gently urged, “I don’t know how kindly he’d take it.”

“Yeah,” he nodded sadly, “Yeah, right. Where’s your bright pink outfit, then?” he asked, “I’d have put money down on the two of them dragging you into all this.”

She laughed. “I’ll never work a single day in this shop, and they know it.”

“Can’t blame you. I’ve been in here eight minutes, and my eyes hurt.”

“How was your summer?”

Ron shrugged. “Alright, I suppose. Phlegm’s been hanging about nonstop, driving my mum mad.”

“Yes, I heard that she and Bill have gotten engaged!” Ophelia beamed, “That’s wonderful! Please give them my congratulations, will you?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Of course, _you’re_ pleased, aren’t you? One more French princess, hanging about. All my bleeding brothers have a type, I swear—”

“I rather think Fleur is your type, too, Ronald,” Ophelia teased, recalling all too well his ill-fated attempt to ask her to the Yule Ball.

He went a bit red, at that. “Rubbish.”

“I’m almost certain she’s _everyone’s_ type.” 

“Rubbish!”

“ _Pourquoi, non_?” she playfully needled, “ _Elle est_ _Française, très belle, et plus grande que toi—”_

“You’d better knock it off, O,” he cautioned.

“How’s Harry?” she asked genuinely, watching as he and the twins emerged from the crowd on the far end of the upper floor.

“Could be better,” Ron admitted, “But I reckon he’s alright, considering. How, er… How are you, then?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Ron didn’t want to press it. It was strange enough, standing here and talking with her, just the two of them. It wasn’t something they’d ever done, before. “How are _they_?” he asked, nodding towards his brothers.

She couldn’t help but smile. “They’re wonderful. I’ve never seen them so happy, and I’ve never been so proud of them in all my life.”

“You and Fred still going strong, then?” he asked casually, thinking himself very clever.

“Of course, we are, they’re—” She straightened up, casting him a dubious look as she caught herself. “ _George_ , you mean. Me and _George_.”

Ron furrowed his brow, giving her an intensely scrutinizing look.

She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Ronald, you really ought to keep out of the grown-up’s affairs.”


	2. Kill Caustic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to invent some magic, for this. In a universe with so many spies, it baffled me that a charm like this didn't already exist. So I wrote one myself.

It was the last day of summer, before Ophelia began her 7th and final year at Hogwarts. Now of age, she found it liberating to be free of the trace. Espionage, clandestine though it may be, had a way of making her feel scrutinized. From both sides, she never knew who was watching.

She moved through Knockturn Alley like a phantom, silent and sure. The hood of her black cloak was drawn to hide her face. She hated what she was about to do. Hated that she had no choice. She was so close to the men she loved, she could nearly feel it. And all she wanted to do was turn around, sprint back up the alley, and pound on their front door of Number 93 until one of them came outside and kissed her.

But she had to do this. She couldn’t put it off a moment longer.

“Madame Lestrange,” some stranger acknowledged as she drifted past, tipping his hat to her.

She drew her cloak tighter, tugging the hood down further. The sign appeared when she rounded a corner. _Sayre’s Crimson Door, Providers of Fine Needle and Inkworke since 1582._ It was a dark and disheveled-looking place, with blacked-out windows. There was a neglected flat, up above, and she could see cobwebs clinging to the corners of the panes.

She pushed the heavy wooden door open, a rust-covered bell announcing her entrance. The shop was dimly lit by piles of melting yellow candles and cluttered with all manner of arcane objects. Bones in shapes she did not recognize, sinister-looking curiosities preserved beneath dusty bell jars. Rusty, spiked instruments displayed on shelves. In one corner hung a bloodstained noose, bearing a wooden sign written in a language she could not identify. In the center of the room sat a very large, old-fashioned looking leather chair, clearly designed to recline backwards. A glass-paned cabinet of macabre metal tools and mysterious phials and flasks hugged the far wall. A frame beside the counter housed a small swatch of human skin bearing a skull tattoo. The engraved plate below it read, “Repo policy.”

A heavyset warlock leaned against the counter; bald, bearded, and covered in tattoos. A thick, silver ring clung to the center of his lower lip. He was flipping idly through a book that seemed to be bound in yet more human skin, roughly stitched and stapled together. She could only assume this was Sayre.

“No walk-ins,” he announced in a gruff, Northern accent, without looking up from his book, “Appointment only.”

“Make an exception,” she commanded, removing her hood.

The man looked up as if to argue, but instantly blanched. He snapped the book closed, setting it aside and straightening up.

“Madame Lestrange,” he greeted, looking her up and down, “I would’ve thought your family wanted to brand you themselves. They’ve got their own ways, the Lestranges, and I wouldn’t want to interfere.”

She shook her head. “I’m not here for that.”

“Well,” he stepped over to her, slipping the cloak from her shoulders and hanging it on the hand of a human skeleton by the door, “What can I do for you, then?”

She hesitated. Long enough for him to notice.

His face turned stony again. “If you’re looking to get your boyfriend’s name branded where the sun don’t shine, perhaps Markus Scarre’s would be more up your street, girl.”

“I need a _Fascinum Statimoris_.”

His lip curled into a sinister smirk. “What would a nice little rich girl like you want with a trick like that?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Who’s it for?”

“Myself.”

His face twitched, curiosity piqued. “It’ll cost you.”

“I thought you knew who I was.”

“Not just in gold.”

“I _thought_ ,” she emphasized, “You knew who I was.”

He seemed to consider her for a moment, eyes slowly traveling the length of her body. She was prepared for this resistance. So, she gracefully raised her left arm, gazing admiringly at the snake and skull writhing in her skin.

“They told me you were the man to come to,” she relayed, tracing her fingertips lightly across the tattoo, “It would be… _Unfortunate_ , if you found yourself unable to deliver.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his resolve waver.

“Even more unfortunate if you ever felt the need to discuss our transaction with anyone.” After a pause, she flicked her eyes up to meet his. “ _Anyone_.”

He crumbled. Just like she knew he would.

“Yes,” he agreed, “Alright, Madame Lestrange. As you say. It’s 2400 Galleons, paid in full prior to placement. The materials alone required for this magic… Well, I can’t just pop down to Cobb & Webb’s, I’ll tell you that.”

With no hesitation, she pulled a small coin purse from the folds of her skirt. “I’ll give you 3000,” she declared, setting it on the counter, “I expect that will be satisfactory.”

Sayre nodded gravely, vanishing the coins with a wave of his wand. He led her to the chair in the center of the room, and she sat down.

“We have a few options,” he explained, opening the glass-paned case, “No matter what, it will have to be set into your flesh, directly centerline. With the shape of your face, I might recommend the septum of your nose. You have my guarantee that it’s nature will be completely undetectable. No one will know what it is unless you tell ‘em.”

“Fine,” she agreed, waving him off, “I don’t care where it goes.”

This answer seemed to please him, as he began mixing odd ingredients in a cauldron. Drops of liquid she couldn’t identify, scales that could’ve been from a snake, or something much more sinister. She recognized beet-red Tentacula leaves, and squirming, green Snargaluff tubers. Lots of poisons. But slivers from a Bezoar, as well. That, she couldn’t pretend to understand.

He paused, suddenly turning to face her. “You’ve got someone you love, don’t you? This won’t work if you don’t.”

She furrowed her brow. “I do, yes.”

“Real love,” he impressed, “Not some schoolyard crush, mind you. Your soulmate, your dear old dad, hell, your _gran_ would do. But they have to be alive, and it has to be real.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand.

“You don’t need to tell me who it is,” he insisted, “Just a yes or a no.”

She nodded in resolute confirmation. “Yes.”

“Good.” He returned to the brew, giving it a stir with his wand. “Start thinking about them now, because we’ll need them in full force later. Like you’re conjuring a Patronus. You can conjure a Patronus, can’t you?”

She was silent for a moment, debating how to answer. It did not go unnoticed.

Sayre chuckled knowingly, face lighting up with curiosity. “You sneaky little— You _can_ , can’t you? That’s a rare trick, for your type, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Sayre,” she cautioned.

“Yeah, of course. The moment you’re old enough to wave a wand, your lot are _trying_ to cast a Patronus, but there aren’t many of you who manage to pull it off, eh? I don’t even think your mum could do it. You’ll be a rare asset for them, if I do say—”

“ _Mr. Sayre_.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat briskly. “Person you love.”

Fred and George. Her stray cats, the pieces she’s been missing. Her reasons for all of this.

Sayre approached her, brandishing a long, silver-bladed dagger. When she recoiled, he reassured her, “Relax. I just need some blood.”

Reluctantly, she extended a hand, and he dragged the blade across her palm with agonizing slowness. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound. He gingerly transported the bloodstained blade back to the cauldron, flicking a few crimson drops into the brew. At their contact, a sound rather like her own scream rose on the steam. Sayre nodded in satisfaction, taking a small sheet of parchment from the cabinet, and scrawling a phrase onto it.

“Read it,” he commanded, shoving it into her hand, “Out loud.”

His handwriting was barely legible, but she was able to make out, “ _Moris Statim Ophelia_?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, stirring the potion. “Again.”

“ _Moris Statim Ophelia_.”

“Again.”

“ _Moris Statim Ophelia_.”

“Good,” he nodded, “Good. That’s the incantation, that’s _your_ incantation. When the time comes, focus completely on the person you love. Let them fill you up, what they look like, what they sound like, what they smell like. And then speak.”

“Why the person I love?” she asked.

“You have to inflict pain upon yourself for the spell to work. And if you were in any position to reach for a wand or a blade, you wouldn’t need to use a trick like this, would you?”

Ophelia was silent, absorbing all that was happening.

With a sigh, Sayre turned away from the potion. “Listen to me, girl. This wasn’t originally meant to be used the way we’re using it. It was designed for use on others, not yourself. Brew the potion with a part of you and a part of them inside it, then sneak it against their skin, and a few hours later, they drop dead. No one knows it was you. No _Priori Incantatem_ on your wand, no blood on your hands. You could be miles away.”

She cocked an eyebrow expectantly.

“And then someone had the idea to use it on themselves,” he explained, “But it’s inherently unstable, walking around with a thing like this all the time. The first few people who tried it this way had them go off unpredictably. They’d just drop dead, right in the middle of whatever it was they were doing. So, now, we take extra steps. Place it along centerline, for example, and it’s more balanced. Contained. Some of the potion ingredients help, and demanding an incantation helps. Focusing your intention like a Patronus helps. But what I’m saying is this: if you want to kill yourself, just kill yourself. There are cheaper, quicker ways. This is tradecraft, do you understand? This is for people worried they’ll need to make a fast, unplanned exit. People worried about Azkaban, or worse.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you do, girl,” he warned, “I hope you do.”

When it was done, he handed her a mirror, and she laid eyes on the cruel charm for the first time. A small triangle of gold descending from the septum of her nose, engraved with delicate, swirling patterns.

“How do you feel?” Sayre asked, taking her by the chin and examining her face.

“I feel like a Dementor’s been at me,” she confessed.

He nodded. “Good. That’ll fade in a few hours. We’re finished.”

“That’s all?”

He scoffed. “What, that wasn’t enough?” He helped her to her feet, and led her back towards the door. “You remember your incantation?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, taking her cloak from the hand of the skeleton and wrapping it around her shoulders.

“Good. Don’t ever forget it. It’s… Well, I don’t want to say it’s your lifeline, but you get the idea.”

“Thank you, Sayre,” she said in earnest, and before he could reply, she drew her wand. “ _Obliviate_!”

The spell hit him right on the forehead; a beam of white light. His eyes glazed over, slipping out of focus. After a few seconds, he blinked, and seemed to notice her presence again.

“Ahh,” he remarked, still a little foggy, “Madame Lestrange. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like my boyfriend’s name branded on my hip,” she announced.

He furrowed his brow in disapproval. “This is a _serious_ establishment,” he scolded, “Go to Markus Scarre’s, if you want a childish thing like that.”

She nodded, turning for the door. And then, just as she was about to leave, she paused, looking over her shoulder at him.

“That flat, upstairs,” she asked, “Is it available?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, she still paid for it. See? She's nice.


	3. Lousy Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, don't these kids go to school?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the publishing gap. I promise, I've got a nice long run for you going up today. You've all been so wonderfully patient, and I can't thank you enough for all the kudos and lovely comments.

When Ophelia arrived at Platform 9 ¾ the following day, there was only one face she wanted to see. (Well, she allowed, the same face twice over.) Perhaps they would be here to see the family off, or cause some stir. Alas, she couldn’t find them anywhere. Not the twins, not Harry, not any of them.

And then she felt a hand slip into hers. Before she could turn to see who it was, she heard a whisper in her ear.

“O where, O where have you been hiding all summer?” Draco. He traced a ringed finger up her cheek.

She turned to face him, meeting his gaze with a kind of disarming confidence. “I might ask you the same thing,” she deflected, touching his left forearm.

He grimaced. “My mother kept me in the damn house. Not really worth coming out these days, though, is it?” He glanced around haughtily, “Mudbloods and blood-traitors everywhere.”

She smiled sadly and kissed him on the cheek, leading him onto the train.

They rode with a few other Slytherins in the front car, and for most of the ride he lay across the seat with his head in her lap. It was as strange as it was disarming. It had been more than a decade, since he’d been this… _Attached_. But as the ride wore on, Ophelia began to suspect that, these days, she might represent something of a bastion of security to him. Like when they were children, and she knew that he felt safer with her. He knew they would have each other, no matter what was going on in the world around them. No matter how frightening or unpredictable the grown-up affairs became, she would be there. Older and wiser than he. But as they had grown up, that attachment to her had become possessive and then controlling, until one day it turned to abuse.

And now, this. Draco, acting as though none of that hurt had happened, none of those wounds inflicted, and expecting her to play along.

And aren’t the grown-up affairs their own, now?

After the banquet, Draco led the First Years to the Common Room, and gave them the tour. He seemed bitter with this responsibility, barely masking his contempt. So unlike he’d been the previous year. Ophelia took her place on one of the sprawling, leather sofas, legs crossed demurely. The rest of the room was packed with noisy, excited students, reconnecting after a summer spent apart, but Ophelia was absorbed in a book. She had no desire to speak to any of them.

“Hey, Lestrange.”

She looked up to see one of the 5th Year girls standing over her, Avela Garko. A group of other girls stood a few feet back, watching in gossipy interest.

“I heard your dad got out,” she said.

Ophelia visibly flinched. “What?”

“I _said_ ,” she repeated, “I heard your dad got out.”

“You heard wrong.”

“That’s a shame,” she shrugged, “I could’ve paid a visit to him, all alone in that big castle of yours.”

Her entourage giggled, whispering behind their hands to one another.

Ophelia sneered. “Do you ever think, before you open your mouth, Garko?”

A lascivious smile played across her lips. “I think about your dad.”

Ophelia had heard enough. She rose to her feet, at once towering over the girl. Her entourage tittered in mock fear.

“Alright, all of you get out!” Draco suddenly shouted from the top of the stairs, “Get to your dormitories, you’ve got class in the morning.”

The room fell silent, and all eyes turned to him.

“Why?” one of the Fourth Years challenged, hands on his hips.

“Because I’m your _Prefect_ ,” he snapped, “But if you’re not happy listening to me, I can always get Professor Snape.”

Silent and dejected, the crowd of students began filtering out of the Common Room. They gave Draco a wide berth as they passed, more than a few averting their eyes in terror.

“I don’t know what’s got you so cross, Ophelia,” Avela needled, moving to walk away, “I think I’d be a lovely stepmother, don’t y—"

Ophelia took her by the upper arm, yanking her close again. Avela struggled for a moment. It was almost funny. But she didn’t let her get away. Not even when the other girls chorused with mocking laughter. She pulled her in close, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

“If I ever hear you say a thing like that again, Garko,” she murmured, “I’ll _kill_ you.”

Avela jerked her arm away, taking an anxious, stumbling step back. Ophelia could tell that she was trying her very best to seem hard and dangerous. Trying, and failing. She laughed awkwardly, eyes darting around.

“No, don’t laugh,” Ophelia commanded in a calm, level voice, “You know it’s not a joke.”

Avela’s tentative smile faded to a look of abject and reverent fear. After a few backward paces, she turned, beckoned to her entourage, and disappeared.

Satisfied with this outcome, Ophelia took her place back on the couch, and resumed leafing through her book.

When the room had been emptied, Draco sat down beside his cousin.

“Was that really necessary?” she asked coolly, flipping through the pages.

He fumed in silence for a moment before snatching the book from her hands and tossing it aside.

She looked up at him placidly. “Are you trying to wind me up? Is that it?”

“Don’t do that,” he sneered, “Don’t you talk to me like _they_ do.” 

“Then stop acting like a child.” He was absolutely nauseating her. She could feel a dull headache beginning to take shape behind her eyes, and all she wanted was for him to go away.

But, by some wild stroke of luck, he didn’t argue any further. He simply exhaled in frustration, and announced. “We need to talk.”

She folded her hands in her lap, nodding serenely. “Alright.”

“You know what I’m meant to do this year,” he murmured, fingers tracing lightly across his left forearm.

She gave him a pensive nod. “I know. But Severus and I are here to help you.”

His expression turned to a subtle sneer. Nearly imperceptible, but she knew him well enough to see it. She could sense in him the desperate need to discuss this, to talk through it with someone. But he was at a complete loss for how to approach it.

“Look,” she urged gently, settling in nearer to him. She pulled up her sleeve and extended her left arm. The tattoo was clear and jet black, the knotted snake flexing and dancing its way towards her wrist. She took his arm, too, pulling his sleeve back and holding it up beside hers. It was the first time she’d seen it. That Mark on his skin.

 _He’s only a boy_ , she thought sadly. _What the Dark Lord has asked of him will destroy him_. By his eyes, she could see that he had already begun to crumble beneath the pressure.

“I am with you in this,” she reminded him.

He jerked his arm away, perhaps more forcefully than he’d intended. “Then where were you the night he put it on me?”

“I was working,” she calmly defended, “You ought to know by now that, when the Dark Lord gives you a command, you obey.”

In truth, she deeply, deeply regretted not having been there for him. He’d have needed her strength, rather than his mother’s tears and weakness. And maybe, if she’d been there, she could’ve turned him. She could’ve convinced him to join the right side. If ever there had been a moment, that would’ve been it.

“Did they sing you that song?” she asked.

He exhaled a hollow laugh. “Who? My mother? The Dark Lord himself? Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, “Draco, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he turned to face her. For the first time in all of their lives, she could see genuine sadness in those ice-chip eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said genuinely. Imploringly. Meaning it with all of her heart.

For a moment, his face flickered with something like absolution. Catharsis. And then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

“It doesn’t matter, now,” he snapped, turning away again, “I’ve got a plan.”

“Tell me,” she coaxed gently.

“You’ll see.”

“No, you’ll tell me,” she pressed.

His moment of hesitation confirmed her suspicion: he was, perhaps, less prepared for this than he’d have wanted her to believe. But she had known Draco Malfoy all her life. He could hide little from her.

“Most of it’s not ironed out yet,” he said defensively, “I’m still working on it. But I’ll tell you this much: I need to get to work mending that Vanishing Cabinet.

Ophelia’s heart seemed to stutter in her chest. “What?”

“Yes.” Draco nodded, lips curling into a triumphant sneer. “And you’ve got your filthy little blood traitor boys to thank for this.”

That night, Ophelia strode purposefully from the Slytherin Common Room and made straight for Dumbledore’s office. Never mind the lateness of the hour, or all the countless portraits on the wall shouting warning and admonishment. This was not a matter that could afford to wait until morning. But, just as she rounded the corner into the 3rd floor corridor, Ophelia heard a distinctive croak from behind her.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a surprise.”

She froze in her tracks, expression hardening into a grimace as she turned to face an immensely self-satisfied Filch.

“I suppose I’m your first catch of the term,” she snapped, “And how very thrilling that must be, for you.”

“And just what does the Madame Lestrange think she’s doing out of her Common Room at this ungodly hour?” he sneered, lifting his lantern a little higher to inspect her warily in the low light. Like he was searching for any sign of weaponry or Weasley products.

Ophelia straightened up. “Whatever I want.”

“God, how I miss when you didn’t talk,” he remarked.

“I’m sure you do.”

“Shut up. I can’t wait to see the look on Severus’ face when I turn up at his door with the likes of you. He’s the only one around here who still believes in the old punishments.”

“Why stop there?” she boldly challenged, “I rather think this is a matter for the Headmaster himself.”

Filch eyed her dubiously.

“What with the severity of my transgression,” she shrugged. “I think you should report this at once to the highest possible authority.”

The next second found Ophelia doubled over with her left ear pinched between the caretaker’s grimy-nailed fingers, and struggling to keep pace as he dragged her off towards the Headmaster’s tower.

When the door to Dumbledore’s office opened, Filch could hardly contain his excitement. “I found this one creeping around the 3rd floor corridor, Headmaster, and I brought her straight here!”

Ophelia rolled her eyes, still doubled over at the caretaker’s mercy. “Yes, and what a _brilliant_ strategy it was.”

But Dumbledore simply smiled, nodding appreciatively. “Well done, Argus. Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

Filch faltered. “B-but Headmaster—”

“Thank you, Argus,” he interrupted, taking Ophelia gently by the arm and guiding her inside, “That’ll be all. Goodnight!” He closed the door with comical finality, casting her a gently admonishing look.

She was quick to try and justify it. “I’m sorry, Professor, but this simply—” It was then that Ophelia noticed Harry standing rather awkwardly near Dumbledore’s desk. Without another word, she closed the space between them and flung her arms around him. It took Harry a moment to react, but when he did, he returned her embrace in earnest.

“Harry,” she murmured, “I’m so…” _So… Sorry? So glad to see you? So frightened for us both?_

“Yeah.” He squeezed her tightly. “It’s alright.”

She nodded. “Alright.”

“Hey,” he whispered in her ear, “I’ll go and get the cloak and the map and then wait for you outside.”

She smiled. “You’re brilliant.” With that, she pressed a long kiss to his cheek and he left.

Ophelia looked back to her Headmaster to find him watching the proceedings with a warm smile.

“I really am sorry for coming so late, Professor,” she began, “And I’m sorry for being out after hours. But I didn’t think this could wait.”

He nodded pensively. “Would this, by any chance, be related to the activities of our mutual friend Mr. Malfoy?”

Baffled though she was by the accuracy of his guess, Ophelia soldiered on before she could lose her nerve. “Last year, I realized that there’s a pair of old Vanishing Cabinets that connect Hogwarts with Knockturn Alley. So, without telling anyone, I broke the onethat’s here. It’s in the Room of Requirement. And then—” She had to pause for a deep, galvanizing breath before she could continue. “And then Fred and George trapped Montague in it, because they didn’t know, and when they finally got him out, he told Draco where the twin is.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Did he, now?”

“And now Draco’s trying to fix it so he can bring the Death Eaters into the castle, once they break out of Azkaban again, because you said yourself that they will.” After a beat, she mumbled a hasty, “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, stepping around to take a seat at his desk. “How was your summer?”

Ophelia stammered. “Wh-what?”

He gestured to the chair across from him. “How was your summer?”

It was then that she noticed his left hand, blackened and shriveled, clutched close to his ribs. “Professor, what happened to your hand?”

He leaned forward, peering over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. “Ophelia.”

Frustrated, she took her seat. “I’d rather not talk about my summer.” It had been a dizzying blend of bliss and horror, spent sneaking back and forth between Diagon Alley and Château Lestrange. Some of the best times she’d ever known, intermingled with some of the worst, neither of which she wanted to discuss with a teacher. “Don’t you want me to stop him? Malfoy?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “No, my dear.”

“You— _What_?”

“Keep me appraised, of course,” he allowed, “As you are always do. But I would ask you to leave this to Severus and me, and be nothing but a friend to Draco. He will need friendship quite desperately, now, as we all surely will.”

Ophelia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Had he heard her? Was he even listening? “But _Professor_ —”

“I would also ask you not to lay any more troubles on Harry,” he interrupted, “I myself am already asking far too much of him. As, I recognize, I am asking too much of you.”

She shook her head in frustration. “So… Watch Draco, and do _nothing_? I ought to just let him bring the Death Eaters into the castle, is that it?”

“You know, I never did make it to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, this summer,” Dumbledore remarked, and the non-sequitur left Ophelia just short of fuming, “I must say, I do count that amongst my most serious regrets. Especially as I understand that the industrious Mr. Filch has begun to screen the mail for their products.”

She sighed in frustration. “Well, I can’t say that I blame him. We’re lucky the castle is still standing in their wake. But—”

Dumbledore beamed, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Do you think you’d be good enough to pick up an order for me, the next time you’re over that way?”

Ophelia left Dumbledore’s office even more frightened and panicked than she’d been when she’d arrived. _Trust Dumbledore_. That’s what everyone told her. _Trust him, trust him, trust him._ What an utter, bloody frustration that was proving to be.

“O!” The sound of Harry’s harsh whisper, and the sudden touch of his hand on her shoulder, made her jump in shock. In all honestly, she’d forgotten entirely that he’d be waiting for her.

“Harry Potter, I _swear_!” she whispered back, feeling around blindly for him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, lifting the cloak to let her in, “Let’s get out of here.”

She thought, at first, to suggest the Room of Requirement. But at once, she realized she couldn’t stomach it, yet. “There’s a tunnel around the corner.”

Once inside, they removed the cloak, and Ophelia lit her wand. Neither knew how to begin.

“So…” Harry stammered, “Er, how are you?”

“Not my best,” she admitted, “And you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, same. Dumbledore wants me to get close with the new Potions Master. Slughorn.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “I’ve no idea. He has some sort of information that Dumbledore needs, but I don’t know what.”

Yet another fork in the maze of Dumbledore’s grand plan. Even if Ophelia thought she’d had some small grasp on it up to this point, that feeling was gone, now.

“How do you get the Death Eaters to tell you stuff?” Harry asked, “Their secrets and everything?”

She shrugged. “I don’t have to make them tell me anything. They already tell me more than I’d ever care to hear. The hard part is making sure they don’t find out I’m telling anyone else.”

Harry seemed to consider that for a moment. “I reckon Slughorn will know I’m passing everything along to Dumbledore.”

“Yes, I imagine he will,” Ophelia agreed, well aware that she had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

“What about Fred, then?” Harry asked, “He and George have to have loads of secrets, how do you get him to tell you stuff?”

Ophelia opened her mouth to speak, and then hesitated. “Harry, I really don’t think that’s going to be an appropriate method to employ on a professor.”

After a beat, it dawned on him, and he went red.


	4. New Perspective

Sept. 7, 1996

My darlings,

Will you indulge me a moment of complaint about how INTERMINABLY DULL it is here without you? All I do is go to class, eat, study, and sleep. Every day is the same dreadful routine, and the days do pass so slowly. I’ve no one to slip me notes in the corridor, no one to drag me through tunnels in the dead of night. Or, for that matter, make me scream myself hoarse in the Room of Requirement, of an evening. The best I get is the occasional remark about Freddie’s ~~wonderful~~ little stunt, last year, both in the form of sympathy from fellow Slytherins, and persistent taunts from everyone else. (STILL, they won’t let it go. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.) No. I think it’s fair to say that there’s no thrill here for me, anymore.

THAT BEING SAID. It does bring something of a tear to my eye, each time I spot a Wheeze in-action, particularly when Filch is involved. You may be gone from this place, my loves, but your influence will certainly live on forever in each new burst of anger that runs through that detestable man’s heart.

What else is there to say? The new Potions Master is something of an oddity- one of Dumbledore’s old guard, actually, he taught all of our parents. And there’s the trouble, for me. Each year he handpicks a group of gifted students to dote and obsess over. Harry, Neville, Ginny, and Hermione have all made the cut, but I seem to have been summarily excluded. (Despite, I’d like you to note, my _singular excellence_ in the field of Divination) Too many memories of Reinhardt, Dolph, and Bastan for him to want to get close, I suppose, and I can hardly blame him. But you know me: belonging has never been a priority. Draco complains endlessly, though, because despite his obvious lack of any and all talent at _anything_ , he seems desperate to call himself a member of the ‘Slug Club’. ( _Slughorn_ is the man’s name, could you ever possibly fathom something more ridiculous?)

Well. That, as they say, is that. I haven’t much else to report because, as I think I mentioned, _I’ve never been so bored in my life._ I love you with all of my heart and more, and I miss you so much I can hardly stand it. Write back immediately, or I’ll throw myself from the Astronomy Tower.

Yours, always,

O

P.S. This invisible ink is, perhaps, your greatest invention yet. I love you, I love you, I _love you_.

9.8.96

Ophelia,

Fucking hell, you write letters like a Victorian ghost trying to communicate from beyond the grave. QUIT BEING SPOOKY and WRITE LIKE A NORMAL PERSON, PLEASE.

Freddie says ‘you’re welcome’ for his stunt, and he says he hopes that Hogwarts never recovers from us. Going by what you said, it probably never will, eh? Shame about the Slug Club, though. We love stories where you wind up having to bully Harry Potter in public to keep up appearances.

Things here are clipping along nicely. Business has slowed a bit, obviously, since the school year started. But I reckon we’ll have a big surge each time there’s a break, and it’s given us time to focus on innovation, anyway. That’s hit and miss, as usual, but so far, we haven’t lost anything that didn’t grow back. We’d send you samples, but we heard a rumor that Filch is screening the mail for our products. Please try and confirm that for us, and if you can, find out how he’s doing it so we can think up a work-around.

Sorry about the boredom, O. I mean that. I can’t tell you how much we miss you, and how much we wish you were here with us. Honestly, you should consider just… Doing what we did. Give ‘em the forks and leave. I know you hate it when we say this, but what do you need N.E.W.T.s for, anyway? And yeah, yeah, Dumbledore needs you. Snape needs you. But… The Death Eaters are back in Azkaban, so… _Why_ do they need you? You probably won’t say, and that’s fine. We understand. Just know you’ll always have a place here, if you get too fed up with it.

We love you, O, and we miss you like mad. And don’t worry- you’ll be screaming yourself hoarse again, in no time.

George (& Fred)

P.S. Sorry about Mischief’s new vocabulary. Fred just kept shouting ‘U-No-Poo’ at him until he started repeating it. He’s calling it ‘guerrilla advertising’ and he thinks it’s well clever.

12.10.96

O,

What the hell happened to Katie??? George was scared to write and ask, because he’s worried you’ll read into it (because of that time they nearly kissed, remember? hah) but I reckon this is better than either of us writing to, like, Alicia or Angelina to ask. That would _really_ send you off, if you ever got wind of it.

We heard something about she touched a cursed object, and like they don’t think she was the actual target. Was it meant for Harry, do you reckon? Who did it? We heard that he and Ron and Hermione were right there, as usual. Perpetually _involved_ , aren’t they? Anyway, write back. Love you madly.

Fred

Oct. 13, 1996

My darlings,

I can’t tell you much, I’m afraid. It would seem that Madame Rosmerta passed Katie a cursed necklace in Hogsmeade, though Dumbledore believes that they were both under the influence of the _Imperius_ Curse. But you’re right: I highly doubt Katie was the intended target. I imagine she was meant to pass it off to someone else. So, do tell Georgie that he needn’t worry about his girlfriend.

Should anything else come to light, I’ll be sure to tell you. I hope you’re well, and I hope you think of me as often as I think of you.

All of my love,

Ophelia

P.S. I just remembered the strangest thing, my loves: the necklace in question is the same one that Mr. Borgin tried to sell me, the day you accompanied me to Knockturn Alley. Do you remember? It seems like a lifetime ago, now. Perhaps I should’ve bought it, after all. I might’ve been able to save Katie a lot of pain.

14.10.96

O-

 _Can’t_ tell us, or _won’t_? I guess it doesn’t matter, the outcome is the same. But don’t think that we know you well enough to tell when you’re playing dumb.

Sorry. I reckon that was offsides. We just worry about you, and it’s hard never knowing what’s going on.

That awful Skeeter woman came by, today. Said she wanted to write an article about us and the shop and all, and we were keen enough to go along for a while. And then she started asking questions about you, and Fred went spare. He was ready to give her the Toad treatment, and he went off round the back looking for explosives, but I shouted her from the premises quick-smart. You’d have been proud, I reckon.

Anyway. We love you like mad, Ophelia, I hope you know that. Write soon.

George

P.S. Fred reminded me: what are you doing for Christmas?

P.P.S. What’s all this about Ginny and Dean??

Oct. 20, 1996

George Weasley, how dare you!

I’ll tell you absolutely nothing about Ginny and Dean! If you’re so curious, you can ask them yourselves! Their business is their business, just as ours is ours! Honestly. _Despicable_ question _._

But on the subject of business, how is it? You’ve neglected to tell me, for a while. Send me something fun, will you?

Yours, always,

O

P.S. Of course I’m coming to yours for Christmas, don’t be daft

22.10.96

O-

Unbelievable. A spy that won’t bloody spy. I hope you know I’ll be marking this down as a massive betrayal. _Useless_. It’s a good think you’re pretty, you know that?

Business. Business is fantastic, honestly. We’ve had another little uptick, I think kids are writing home to their younger siblings, now that we can’t ship to Hogwarts anymore. So, nothing fun for you, Lestrange! Not until you do away with Filch for us. That girl we hired, Verity, she’s got a bit of a thing for one of us, I reckon. George, I think. Or me. I don’t think she can keep us straight. She asked us to wear nametags, but we’ve been switching them with some regularity, just to confuse her. We made duplicates, too, so sometimes we’ll both wear the same name. That’s well fun.

Anyway. Write back or else. Love you madly.

Fred

Oct. 25, 1996

Fred Fabian Weasley,

You tell little miss Verity _Whatever_ to keep her hands to herself, or she’ll feel my wrath. And quit encouraging her with those cheeky little nametag stunts. That’s such irresistibly charming behavior, and I can’t help but think that you know that.

_Behave_ ,

Ophelia

26.10.96

Ophelia,

Please don’t tell him he’s being charming. His head’s swelled up to a completely unmanageable size, and he hardly fits in the flat.

Seriously. Don’t do that again.

Sternly,

George

Nov. 2, 1996

My darlings,

You should’ve seen your brother, today. His performance in the Quidditch final will surely live on in the annals of Hogwarts history. I know you’d be proud. I tried my best to convey that to him, in the fleeting moments in which our paths crossed after the match, though I think (as is typically the case, when I try to speak with Ronald) I did little more than frighten him. Please write him? It would mean the world. You and Bill were such legendary figures on the Gryffindor team.

What else is there to say? Slughorn is hosting a Christmas party, just before the break, and it’s all the school is talking about. Isn’t that just the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard? That a party thrown by a teacher (a _teacher_ ) would ever be considered the event of the season! The three of us have hosted more thrilling gatherings alone in your dormitory. (But those, I’ll admit, had nothing whatsoever to do with academics, and quite a lot to do with stolen whiskey and bare skin) Even still, Harry joked that he ought to bring me along as his date. Could you ever picture it? _Mon Dieu_ , the chaos that would surely ensue! No, I’ll keep my distance, thank you very much. I’m not one for parties, anyway. Three is more than enough for me.

Still… I don’t know. I must confess that a strange pallor of sadness seems to have fallen over me. More than the boredom, it’s…

~~I’m sorry~~

~~I can’t~~

~~It’s not fair~~

I find myself falling into a trap, of sorts. Rodolphus and Rabastan are back in prison, the Dark Lord entirely dejected, and I _know_ it’ll only be a few short months until we’re together again, and we can begin our life. So… I suppose it’s difficult not to let myself believe that this is permanent state of affairs. It’s _comfortable,_ this way. I feel… Well, I suppose I feel sort of free.

But it’s false. I know it’s false. And I’m sorry that I can’t tell you how I know that.

All I want to do is think about what it’ll be like. The two of you can run your shop, and make all of your beautiful, mad things, and I’ll hang about the flat like a princess, wasting space. Utterly useless. But you’ll tolerate it, because of how much I love you. And I do love you. I love you so much that sometimes it feels as though my heart could burst in my chest. It’s like a scream trapped in my throat, ~~and if I let it out, I’ll be killed.~~

I’m sorry, my darlings. That’s enough of my melancholy. I’m counting the minutes until I see you again. Counting the seconds. Write back at once, or I’ll fill my pockets with stones and walk into the lake.

Yours, forever,

Ophelia

15.11.96

O-

What day does term end, again? I seem to have intentionally erased every Hogwarts-related fact permanently from my brain.

Your George

Nov. 18, 1996

Georgie, darling, 

The 21st of December, I can’t believe you. Anyway, what sort of a letter was that?? Entirely unacceptable, in my book. No, I’ll expect a much more thorough reply, in the forthcoming.

Yours, always,

O

27.11.96

Madame Lestrange-

I’ve only just heard the terrible news. Has Dearest Georgie truly slipped below your (dare I say _baseline_ ) standards for romantic letter-writing? Ill news, says I. Ill news indeed. No, it shan’t do. It simply _shan’t_. And though it pains me to the core, darling, I’ve decided that I’ll have to be the only one to write you, from now on. Dearest Sweet Georgie simply isn’t up to snuff anymore, and it would break my heart ( _dash it against the rocks_ ) to see you disappointed by such subpar performance.

But, after all, isn’t that just what we’ve come to expect from the scoundrel? In, perhaps, more arenas than just letter-writing? Do forgive me the innuendo, I’m simply distraught over this unfortunate turn of events.

Your _most_ favored, _most_ beloved,

Fred F. Weasley, Esq.

P.S. Reply at once, or I’ll cast myself from the highest window.

Dec. 1, 1996

Fred-

You what? I reckon you’re having a laugh, mate. Fireworks and pranks and skiving _whatever_ , blah, blah, blah. Knackered and sod off and get stuffed and all, eh? Brooms are well fun, and I like to smack Bludgers at girls I fancy.

What are you on about?

Ophelia

3.12.96

Yeah, I reckon I earned that one.

Love you madly,

Freddie

20.12.96

Ophelia Bloody Lestrange-

You spooky thing, you absolute _love of my life_ , we will see you tomorrow.

George

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little proud of this chapter. I've never done anything like this before, and I think I did alright!


	5. Hang the DJ

It was Christmas Eve, and the streets of Diagon Alley were blanketed with clear, fresh snow. Ophelia’s were the only footprints to be seen, and the gently falling flakes gave them a softened look, the farther she walked. It was a strange sight for her: the storefronts and shop windows that were normally so lively were darkened and covered, but a warm, golden light shone from nearly every flat window above. She gazed down the street towards her destination. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was like every other shop she’d passed: dark and uncharacteristically subdued. But to her, the light from the apartment above was the brightest, most inviting one of them all.

The door opened before she had even raised a hand to knock, and she was instantly enveloped in her lover’s crushing embrace. It was George. She wasn’t sure how she could tell, but she was certain. She could feel the truth of him in her soul. He smothered her in his arms and kissed her face, over and over.

“God, where have you been all my life?” he groaned, inhaling the scent of her skin.

She breathed a monosyllabic laugh, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders for the first time in as many months.

“What’s this, then?” he realized with a chuckle, tugging gently at the delicate triangle of gold descending from the septum of her nose.

Ophelia laughed. “It’s a long story.”

“Oh, is it, now?” he half-mocked.

She slid her hand up the back of his neck, drawing him closer to her. “Tell me you love me anyway.”

“Bloody hell, you _know_ I love you.”

Their lips collided, sweetly, forcefully, tongues meeting for only the briefest of moments. Then he hoisted her, shrieking, up onto his shoulder and carried her into the shop and up the stairs. When they reached the apartment above, he tossed her down onto the sofa and performed a quick about-face.

“I’m getting the fire whiskey. Make yourself at home, for _Godssakes_ , woman.”

“Where’s Freddie?” she shouted after him, stripping her cloak away and flinging it over the back of the couch.

_CRACK_! Fred Apparated straight onto the couch with her; his head in her lap, gazing up at her with a self-satisfied grin.

She shrieked, jumping and bringing a pillow down hard onto his face. She’d been in their home mere moments, and already, her face was aching from the constant smile.

“You what?” Beaming, he swatted the pillow away sat up beside her. He took her lightly by the throat, pulling her in close. “I suppose you just think it’s funny to hit me in the face, don’t you? And now you’ve graduated to using weapons!”

Bright laughter bubbled up from within her. “Kiss me, you _animal_.”

He instantly obliged, smashing their lips together.

“Mmm—” He withdrew, flicking at the jewelry in her nose, “What’s all this, then?”

George descended onto the couch beside them, holding a trio of mismatched glasses in one hand, and a bottle of fire whiskey in the other.

“ _It’s a long story_ ,” he and Ophelia answered in perfect unison, before exchanging proud grins.

Fred slid a hand up the side of her neck, drawing her in close again. “Oh, is it, now?”

The feeling of his warm breath on her face made her weak. She lunged in for him, but George thrust a hand between them. They both wound up kissing it instead, and Fred mimed an expressive gag.

“Cool your boots, there’ll be plenty of time for _that_ ,” George prodded, forcing his brother away and shoving the glasses into their hands, “We’re getting smashed tonight.”

The bottle uncorked itself, hanging in the air for a moment before filling each of their glasses.

“ _Bottoms up_ ,” they all said simultaneously, the twins linking arms before downing the entire contents of their glasses. The whiskey made her throat burn with cinnamon, and she could feel its immediate, heady effect the moment it hit her stomach.

“ _All of it,”_ they commanded in a playful unison, as she tried to lower her half-full glass. Before she could protest, they each put a finger on the base of the glass and tipped the rest of the whiskey into her mouth. On cue, the levitating bottle refilled it.

_“Good girl!”_

With a flick of his wand, Fred set the record player in the corner spinning.

“ _Panic on the streets of London,_

_Panic on the streets of Birmingham…”_

She gasped in shock. “Is this the Smiths record I bought you?”

They cast her proud grins. “ _Yeah_.”

She giggled with delight. “Oh, you’re such good sports, the both of you! I _knew_ you’d come around!”

“Alright, settle down,” George laughed, giving her a gentle nudge.

“Anyway, what’ve you been up to lately?” Fred asked, “What’s the _long story_?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting her head fall backwards. With a gentle smile, she breathed, “Mmm, don’t ask me that just yet. Let me enjoy myself for a while.”

Her lovers nodded in quiet understanding, each reaching out to touch her in some small, reassuring way.

“What have you lot been up to, then?” she asked, unlacing her thigh-high boots with a flick of her wand and kicking them away. She pulled her feet up onto the couch to sit cross-legged, and looked between them expectantly.

“ _’You lot’_ she says.”

George shook his head in mock dismay.

She ignored them entirely, throwing her head back to belt, “ _Hopes may rise on the Grasmere, but honey-pie, you’re not safe here_!”

“Alright, if you can’t be responsible,” George scolded, lowering the volume with a twist of his wand.

She leaned over to grind her nose against his cheek. “Oh, you’re no fun anymore.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Fred began, yanking her back over, “Mum’s finally come ‘round to the notion of our unfinished educations.”

“That’s wonderful!” she congratulated in earnest.

“Yeah,” George interjected, “I wouldn’t say she approves entirely, but I ‘spose she sees we’re happy, and that’s what matters.”

“Business couldn’t be better—”

“—and it’s all thanks to that scrawny, specky git and his ill-gotten gains!”

“Not to mention old Toad Face!”

“Well, then,” she raised her glass, “To Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge, and Mr. Harry Potter himself, I suppose!”

The trio toasted again, and for the second time, they forced her to finish her glass.

“I can’t fathom how you’re doing it, honestly,” she observed, “Half the Alley’s closed down, I saw when I walked through.”

“You could’ve just Apparated right inside, you know,” Fred remarked, slightly offended.

"Preferably straight onto the bed.”

“Preferably without your clothes.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to frighten you.” A harmless lie. What would be the point of Apparating from a block away? But she didn’t want them to know about that place. She didn’t want them taking stupid risks by trying to come and see her there. Just like when they were children, they would not be safe in Knockturn Alley without her. Only now, she was afraid they wouldn’t be safe with her, either.

“Ooh, you hear that, Georgie? It’s our scary, Death Eater girlfriend!”

“She Who Must Not be Named!”

“So dangerous!”

Ophelia couldn’t help but laugh, placing a hand on each of their cheeks. “I just don’t want you to start casting hexes before you realize it’s me!”

“ _Fair point.”_

Spending time with Fred and George was dizzying under normal circumstances, what with their fast-paced humor and effortless repartee. But with two full glasses of fire whiskey now warming her from the inside out, Ophelia’s head was beginning to spin. And it was apparent that her lovers were becoming similarly affected, as they both began to sink further into the couch on either side of her. Touches became heavier, eyes meeting for longer and longer.

“I’ve missed you,” she sighed, looking between them, “Truly.”

The twins murmured in simultaneous affirmation.

Her gaze came to rest on George, and after a moment, he took the glass from her and released it to float beside the bottle. He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and gazed deeply into her eyes. His brow gathered slightly, thumb running along her cheekbone, and then he drew her into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. The breath hitched in her throat at the touch of his lips on hers, the feeling of his hand in her hair. She moaned lightly into his mouth.

“What are we still doing out here?” she whispered when they parted.

Fred stood, wrapped his hands around her waist, and hoisted her up over his shoulder. “Good bloody question.”

The young lovers lay naked in each other’s arms, glowing in the soft light of the floating candles. Out in the sitting room, the record on the turntable popped and crackled, the needle skipping on the last groove. The levitating bottle of liquor had long since cascaded to the floor, spilling its contents among the shattered glasses.

George clasped her right hand, rubbing her fingers between his. She leaned back against his chest and breathed in his heady scent. Fred lay between her legs, with his head in her lap, eyes drifting closed at the feel of her long-nailed fingers running through his hair. The three of them were wound together so tightly and so comfortably, and the true beauty of it was that it was love that held them together. Ophelia, stunned and serene, allowed herself to sink heedlessly into the languid pleasure. This was it; this was all she required. With Fred and George, she would never want for anything else in the world.

Fred’s voice shook her back to life. “You can tell us about it, you know,” he offered, gazing up at her imploringly. She felt George’s grip on her tighten as he craned his neck to see her face.

She shook her head, trying desperately to stave off the inevitable return to reality. “No, I can’t,” she said, “You know I can’t.”

“Why?”

“They’ll kill you.” It was that simple.

A tentative silence hung in the air for a moment. All eyes fell to the black bandage wound tightly around her left forearm. After a pause, George reached out for it.

“No,” she interjected forcefully, catching him by the wrist, “Leave it alone, my darling.”

“Why?”

“We know what’s under there, O, you don’t have to hide it.”

“I do,” she argued, “I do have to hide it. Because seeing it makes me sick.”

George withdrew his arm, wrapping it across her chest. An uncomfortable silence hung in the room, then, and she squirmed between them for something to do.

“You don’t have to be so serious all the time, O,” Fred finally cut in, pinching her on the leg.

“Yeah, come on. Where’s your sense of humor these days?”

“There’s just no point, is there?”

“ _Bollocks_.” They both sat up, and George wrapped his arms around her waist. Fred leaned in and touched their noses together.

“Come on, let’s play a game,” he coerced in a thrilling whisper, “Truth or a lie.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “That’s hardly a game. That’s just you two coming up with lies to tell me.”

_“It is not!”_

“You go first, then!”

“Tell us a ridiculous lie!”

She reluctantly smiled, and let her head fall back onto their lover’s shoulder. “Ahh… Let me think. I… I’ve never been to London.”

It came in unison. “ _Liar_.”

“You’re in London right now, stupid—”

“—Diagon Alley’s _in_ London!”

“And the Ministry!”

“And King’s Cross Station!”

“’Course, we know you’ve never been to _Muggle_ London—”

“—never seen their fancy castle—”

“—or that big clock they care so much about—”

“—or the spinny wheel you’re meant to ride on!”

She shook her head, resigning to their embrace. “If anyone ever saw us out together, they’d—”

Fred laughed, “They’d what? Put us on a list of blood traitors? Send Death Eaters out to steal us from our beds?”

“Fat lot of good that’s done them so far!”

“Yeah, I don’t want to alarm anyone, here, but I think there’s a Death Eater in this bed _right now_.”

“Besides,” George interjected, “You’re _spying_ on us, remember? You’re _supposed_ to be hanging about, getting us to trust you and all.”

“Even Snape shows his ugly face ‘round Grimmauld Place, from time to time.”

It wasn’t that simple. She knew that they understood that, there was no point in arguing. Instead, she smiled sadly, looking between them.

“You trust me?” she teased.

“A right sight better than we trust that greasy old Snivellus, that’s for damn sure.”

She breathed a monosyllabic laugh. “I suppose that must be true, as I can’t imagine either of you taking him to bed.”

“ _Easy_!” They jostled her in playful unison.

“Anyway, we never finished your stupid game,” she reminded them, “It’s someone else’s turn. Truth or a lie.”

George answered immediately. “I love you.”

“True,” Fred appraised with a severe nod.

She craned her neck to look up at him, smiling wryly. “Is that true?”

He took her by the chin, eyes flitting down to her lips. “Hang about and I’ll prove it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the bare bones of this chapter are what started it all. I've had this section sitting in a word document on my laptop for twelve years, and then about a year ago, I stumbled upon it again and now here we are. It's gone through a lot of editing, of course, and it's been put in the context of the larger story. But I built the entire thing around this. This was it.


	6. Iceblink Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're the match of cherry coal  
> That will burn this whole madhouse down  
> You'll not throw open like a worn-out safe  
> More like a love that's a bottle of exquisite stuff, yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. You all need to understand something right now, before we can continue. I love Fred and George. I love the Phelps twins with all of my heart. Do you follow them on Instagram? It's goddamn adorable. I would commit murders for those two. But Domhnall Gleeson is my absolute manic pixie dream boy sweetheart, and I would burn cities to the ground just to see the flames dance in his eyes. I would leave my wife for that man, and she knows it.
> 
> Okay, continue.

The following morning, the three dressed and prepared to leave for Christmas Do at the Burrow. She gave them their presents: a pair of gold pocket watches, engraved with an F and a G. Inside, they read, “ _Je t’aime, toujours_.” The watch faces themselves were matte black with delicate, gold hands. Like a bit of her, she’d said, to carry around in their pockets. They loved them, and smothered her with kisses and thanks.

Their gift, however, surpassed hers by miles. With an air of thrilled pride, the presented her with an original 1486 edition of the _Malleus Maleficarum_.

Ophelia’s hand hovered over the yellowing parchment pages, mouth opening and closing in dumb silence.

Fred was quick to explain, “It’s an old Muggle book—”

“—and it’s just loads of instructions on how to spot and kill witches!”

“That’s what _Malleus Maleficarum_ means!”

“It’s the Witches Hammer!”

“Yes,” she said distantly, “Yes, I know. But… Wherever did you find this?”

“Your neck of the woods, of course—”

“—Knockturn Alley!”

“It says in there that you’ll steal our knobs while we’re sleeping, and then give them to the devil,” Fred giggled.

“Yeah, is that true?” George prodded, “If we catch you doing that, we’ll be well cross with you, Lestrange.”

“We’re onto you, now.”

“What would he even want with them, anyway?”

“My darlings…” she whispered, shaking her head, “This is absolutely… The most horrible and grotesque thing I’ve ever seen in all my life.”

Their stomachs dropped, and they exchanged worried glances.

“Er… Yeah?”

“Yes, and…” She looked up, absolutely beaming, “My god, you know me so well!”

The twins dressed in identical, dark grey suits, their new timepieces tucked smartly into their pockets. Fred’s tie and waistcoat were orange, and George’s purple. Ophelia had selected a long dress in deep burgundy, rather than her typical black. The high collar and scalloped sleeves gave it a classically witchy look; something she’d hoped would please Mrs. Weasley.

“That rather looks like the one you wore to the Yule Ball,” George remarked.

She laughed. “Well, it shouldn’t! It’s completely different!”

“The color’s the same,” he shrugged defensively, “Anyway, bloody _pardon me_ for mixing up the _only two dresses_ I’ve ever seen you wear that aren’t _black_.”

Fred chimed in, “Yeah, it’s all the worse that they’re both the same color, isn’t it? Hang on—” He wrapped his hands around her waist, fingers nearly meeting. “Are you _not_ wearing a corset?”

“No!” she divulged, placing her hands over his.

“Christ,” he marveled aloud, “Everything just stays right in place on you, doesn’t it?”

“No, I’m honestly a little afraid all of my organs are going to fall out! I’ve read that can happen!”

He laughed and yanked her closer, nipping at her ear. “If they do, I’ll stuff them back in for you.”

George grimaced. “Don’t be weird.”

Her laugh was faint. She was preoccupied. “Are you sure I’ll be welcome?” she asked tentatively, flinging her billowing, fur-lined cloak over her shoulders.

“Of course, you’ll be welcome,” Fred reassured her, gently tugging her great length of hair out from beneath the cloak and tossing it over her shoulder, “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“My name,” she admitted, “My house. The Mark on my arm.”

“Nobody ‘round there cares about any of that,” George insisted, donning a long, black, double-breasted pea coat. Clearly new, and quite expensive. “Sirius was as dodgy as they come, and they all loved him.”

“And given the right timing, Remus would kill the lot of them in their sleep—”

“Or the _wrong_ timing…”

“—but he’s family.” Fred followed suit, buttoning up an identical coat.

She shook her head, bitterly reminding them, “Neither Sirius nor Remus has ever taken _both_ your—”

“ _Fair point_ ,” they interrupted in unison, before erupting into identical peals of laughter.

“You do look like proper gentlemen, today,” she complimented, straightening their ties and collars, “Very handsome.”

They beamed with pride, color rising to their freckled cheeks.

“Oh, go on, then…” George teased.

“It’ll be a challenge for me to keep my hands off you,” she said, giving them each one final caress down the cheek before donning a pair of leather gloves.

“Here’s what we’ll do—” George announced decisively, “Last time they saw us, you were with me. So, I think that means you’re Fred’s, this time.”

She rolled her eyes, reluctant to admit how genuinely amusing the stunt would be.

“Brilliant,” Fred chuckled, taking her hand and kissing the bare skin of her inner wrist, “They’ll all think they’ve gone mad.”

“Or that they’ve just been mixing us up again!”

“Or they’ll catch on,” she pointed out.

“ _Rubbish_.”

“You keep this up, and they’ll never let me in the house again,” she scolded lightly.

“With all you do for the Order?” George scoffed, “They’re lucky to be graced with your presence, love.”

Before she could respond, he placed his hand over theirs, and they Disapparated with a crack.

“ _Ooh, they’re here!!”_ she heard Molly squeal from inside the warm, inviting house, “And who’s that they’ve got with them?”

Ophelia looked between her lovers, smiling sadly. A light snow was falling, tiny flakes clinging to their strawberry eyelashes. They returned her smile, Fred linking his arm with hers; a rather uncharacteristically chivalrous act.

“She’ll be right,” he reassured her, “Just give her time.”

The trio stepped lightly through the blanket of snow, towards the house. When they reached the door, Molly flung it wide and drew her sons into a tight embrace.

Unison. “ _Hi, mum_!”

“It’s so good to see you, dears!” she exclaimed, before turning to their companion.

Ophelia smiled, trying to make it as warm and inviting as possible. Despite her best efforts, she could feel it falling short of ideal. Nevertheless, Molly flung her arms around her, planting a kiss on her cheek.

Ophelia was caught off-guard. All at once, she felt the need to blurt out some useful information, some scrap of a secret she’d picked up from the other side. Something, _anything_ to prove her worth. She felt as though she needed to offer them a token to gain entry. Earn her way into the house.

But she held her tongue, instead offering a simple, “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Weasley,” and returned the embrace in earnest, “Thank you for having me.”

“Well, we didn’t know you were coming!” she admitted, albeit brightly, before turning to scold her sons, “These two are just full of surprises, aren’t they?”

This caused her stomach to twist with worry. “I—I’m so sorry. I thought— I’ll go.”

Mr. Weasley appeared over his wife’s shoulder, putting an arm around her. “Nonsense,” he dismissed with a warm smile, “You’re always welcome here, my dear.”

Fred took her hand, and with a kiss on her cheek, led her over the threshold and into the Burrow. The place was bustling with activity; Ron and Harry were there, along with Ginny, Bill, and Fleur. Tonks and Lupin sat together by the fire, joined by Kingsley. The kitchen, however, was the true marvel: enchanted pots, pans and utensils, all hard at work preparing Christmas dinner entirely on their own. The air hung thick with the smell of roast ham, cakes, and mulled wine.

This was a home. A _real_ home, so unlike any of the places Ophelia had grown up. It was warm and inviting and filled with love. For a moment, her breath hitched in her chest, and she had to swallow the urge to cry.

“Easy, there, love,” Fred whispered to her, slipping the cloak from her shoulders and hanging it by the door, “No need to go all soft on us now.”

She smiled, placing a hand on his cheek. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He kissed her, then, pressing his lips to hers in an act that was over all too quickly.

“Settle down,” George needled, elbowing his brother in the ribs.

“Blimey,” she heard Ron whisper from across the room, “I could’ve sworn she was with George last time.”

Harry squinted, examining the trio intensely. “I dunno…”

Ophelia looked up at her lovers with a wry smile, and they winked in perfect unison.

At the dinner table, she sat between Fred and Fleur, with whom she chattered away endlessly in French. Molly seemed to visibly despise it. Luckily, Ron and Harry were, for the most part, keeping her distracted. Occasionally, and to Ophelia’s great delight, Bill would catch a lick of their conversation and attempt to join in, using very poor, stilted French. Fred began to notice that Ophelia seemed to go very pink, every time Bill looked at her, and she was giggling a lot more than usual. Eventually, she divulged in a conspiratorial whisper that she thought Bill was _much_ prettier than either of them, and she couldn’t believe it took them this long to introduce her.

Fred and George decided they’d need to have word with Billy, and make sure he understood whose French Princess was whose.

After the exquisite meal, the trio settled in by the fireplace, leaning against one another comfortably as they talked and laughed. The twins were dressed, then, in their homemade sweaters. But, to Ophelia’s endless amusement, they had swapped, insisting that their names were Gred and Forge. She couldn’t help but note, with no small amount of sadness, that she had not been given a sweater. But it was alright. Molly didn’t know she was coming.

 _Yes_ , she tried to tell herself, _that’s why_.

Occasionally, when they were sure they weren’t being watched, they would each sneak a sip from the flask of fire whiskey George was hiding in his pocket. It had turned into a fun, harmless game. Plan was that, at the end of the night, they’d let the most trollied of the three of them Apparate them back to the shop. So far, the consensus was that it would be Fred, and that he would, at the _very_ least, splinch an arm and a leg off of each of them.

“Come on, then,” Ophelia coaxed, “Do another one, for me!”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Between one and ten?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Ready… Go!”

“ _Seven_ ,” they sighed in unison.

She squealed with laughter. “I don’t know how you get it every time! Ready… Go!”

“ _Four_!”

“You’re bloody brilliant,” she praised, “The pair of you.”

George laughed. “You’ll never get bored of that trick, will you?”

She shook her head. “Absolutely not. Come on, one more.”

To her shock, they answered differently.

“Five.”

“Eight.”

She gaped at them, heart sinking. “Oh no, what happened there?”

The twins exchanged mischievous smiles, before answering, “ _Only joking. It was thirteen_.”

“ _What_??” Ophelia sputtered in disbelief, throwing her arms in the air. “But that’s not even between one and ten!!”

They laughed, extremely proud of yourselves.

“Oh, you do my head in!” she giggled, slipping her hand up George’s cheek. She pulled him in close, pressing soft kisses all across his face.

“What are you doing?” he chuckled, trying to squirm away.

“Kissing you.”

He shook his head. “You’re drunk.”

“That’s true, but I still love you.”

The existed in the company of one another with an ease they did not question, in a dream of cinnamon whiskey burn and firelight warmth. Until, from the kitchen, they could hear Molly interrogating her son. They shushed each other, straining their ears to listen.

“Ronald!” she stage-whispered.

They could tell he had a mouthful, by his muffled, monosyllabic response.

“What’s that she’s got in her nose?”

He groaned wearily. “Mum, I dunno. Whad’you want from me?”

“Well, you’re a Hogwarts Prefect, aren’t you?”

“Not for Slytherin, I’m not,” he argued indignantly, “Besides, being a Prefect doesn’t exactly give me jurisdiction over what goes in Ophelia Lestrange’s nose.”

Harry began to laugh, and then quickly silenced. They imagined it had something to do with one of Molly Weasley’s signature withering looks.

“Yeah,” Fred whispered furtively, “The only people who get to decide what goes in Ophelia Lestrange are the two of _us_!”

The trio giggled, passing the flask back and forth for another round.

Molly soldiered on. “Part of being a Prefect is seeing that school dress code is upheld. And nowhere in your letters does it allow _that_ sort of thing.”

George couldn’t contain himself any longer, finally exclaiming in a loud, high-pitched singsong, “ _Ooh, you hear that, Freddie? Ickle Ronnykins is gonna come in here and tell your girlfriend off_!”

“Shh!!” she sloppily pressed a finger to his lips, whispering, “I’m supposed—Wait, _whose_ bloody girlfriend am I meant to be, now?”

“You’re all mine today, love,” Fred reminded her, trying to tug her into his arms. She toppled over, landing with her head in his lap.

“I’m beginning to think O’s gonna be the one to give us our Christmas splinching,” George announced furtively, slinging her long legs across his lap.

She broke into quiet giggles. “I’ll give you something better than that for Christmas,” she murmured, and they chuckled, shushing her.

Harry and Ron came around the corner, then, Ron holding a small plate overstuffed with cakes. He absorbed the tableau, casting them a disapproving look.

“Oi,” he scolded, “You lot better lay off about Prefects.”

“ _Ooh_!” The twins shivered in mock fear.

“ _’You lot’_ he says.”

“See if we give _you_ lot any more family discounts, Ickle Ronnykins!”

Ron mumbled something that sounded like, “Never gave me a discount anyway...” and flopped down into a nearby chair with his cakes. “It’s not all bad, you know. Being a Prefect. That bathroom on the fifth floor makes it all worth it.”

The trio exchanged unimpressed looks, before bursting into fits of laughter.

“As if you’ve gotta be a sodding _Prefect_ to get in there!” Fred mocked.

Harry laughed appreciatively, but Ron shook his head. “I don’t want to think about that. I swear, if you two were still in school, I’d—”

“Oh, _Ronald_!” Ophelia sighed, sitting up and tossing him the flask from George’s pocket, “Lighten up.”

“ _Yeah, Ron_ ,” the twins goaded in unison, “ _Come and join the big boys_.”

He glanced over his shoulder towards the door to the kitchen, before taking a deep swig and passing it to Harry.

“Thanks!” Harry said genuinely, toasting the trio.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Ophelia prodded, laying her head back down in the lap of, she failed to realize, the wrong twin. George picked up a strand of her hair, and set about weaving a sloppy braid through it.

“Hang on,” Ron realized aloud, “You’re not playing that bloody splinching game again, are you?”

“ _Splinching_ game?” Harry asked, incredulous.

Ron explained. “They think it’s funny to Apparate around, completely wankered. They usually wind up losing a limb or two. And now they’ve dragged her into it, I reckon.”

She laughed, giving him a wink. “You _reckon_ correctly, Ickle Ronnykins.”

Harry visibly cringed. “That’s not very funny, is it? Splinching’s really _painful._ ”

Fred shrugged, resting a hand on Ophelia’s thigh. “You just say that because you’re not wankered enough.”

The trio dissolved into another fit of laughter.

Ron shook his head in dismay, taking another sip of fire whiskey. “Look at yourselves, will you? Honestly, the three of you better be careful. Mum’s gonna catch on, if you keep mixing up who she’s meant to be with.”

Fred had heard enough. He abruptly jumped to his feet and strode across the room, snatching the flask away. “You dunno what you’re talking about, mate,” he snapped, throwing himself back down onto the couch.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Ron probed, “You’re not switching, not _really_ , and I haven’t been mixing you up. You’re _both_ getting a leg over—”

“You’d better shut your mouth, Ron,” Fred threatened, “Or I’ll shout mum you’ve been drinking fire whiskey.”

He parried, “I’ll tell her you forced it down my throat. She’d believe it.”

Ophelia sat between the twins in awkward silence, unsure of how to react to the sudden, frank discussion of their extremely unconventional relationship.

“Only way mum’s finding anything out is if you run your big mouth,” George snapped.

“Right,” Ron nodded patronizingly, “Sure. She’s already wound up over _her_ choice of nose decoration,” he gestured towards Ophelia, “No chance of her trying to spy in on what you’re all up to.”

“Sod off, Ron,” Fred interrupted angrily, “Really, sod off.”

Harry’s face changed, like he’d finally pieced it together. He looked at the trio in apparent shock. “Ophelia…” he whispered in a tone too close to awe for Ron’s comfort, “ _Both_?”

She cast him a condescending and sympathetic look. “Sweet boy, you’ve seen my Patronus.”

The twins exchanged proud grins, each taking one of her hands and pressing their lips to her knuckles. They knew she loved them, they’d never needed proof. But her Patronus was always a beautiful reminder.

“Yeah, but I just thought…” Harry sat back in his chair, wide eyed, cheeks beginning to redden from the fire whiskey. “Hang on, how…?” he murmured, face screwed up in thought as he looked between the twins, “How d’you manage that?”

“ _Harry_!” Ron scolded.

The trio laughed, Fred and George collapsing in on her shoulders. She placed a hand on each of their cheeks, holding them close.

“Honestly,” Ron begged, “Don’t wind them up about it.”

“I dunno what you’re coming all narky with us, for,” Fred interjected, “There’s nothing better. Perhaps you oughta give it a go, yourselves!”

George began to sway suggestively. “Harry, Ron, and Hermione…” he sang in a dreamy tone, “You know you’ve thought about it, eh, baby brother? Everyone else has!”

“That had better not be true!” Ron snapped defensively.

Harry shook his head in bewilderment, still processing this new information. “I mean… Do you two just… _Take turns_?”

“Harry!”

Ron was at his wits end, and Ophelia, Fred and George were nearly weeping with laughter.

Ophelia held the flask aloft, looking Harry dead in the eyes. “To Mr. Harry Potter: his boundless curiosity, and depthless tolerance!” She drank deeply, passing it back to the twins.

“Come on,” Ron implored in a whisper, “Give us another nip of that.”

“ _YOU HAD BETTER NOT BE GIVING YOUR BROTHER FIRE-WHISKEY IN THERE!!!”_

George guiltily stashed the flask back in his pocket, but not before dumping the rest down his throat. Ophelia giggled, but he just shrugged.

“There’s no fire whiskey in here, I dunno what she’s on about.”


	7. Pagan Poetry *Explicit Content*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're adults, now, lol

They Apparated back to Diagon Alley late that night, all of their extremities mercifully intact. They were naked by the time they’d reached the top of the shop stairs, leaving a trail of shed clothing in their wake. The twins’ fine suits lay in discarded pieces throughout the shop, along with Ophelia’s lavish, fur-lined cloak, and her wildly expensive dress.

They didn’t even make it to the bedroom. Instead, they fell in a drunken heap to the sofa in the living room, a tangle of warm limbs, tongues, and laughter.

“I want you both,” she breathed, beckoning for them. “At the same time. Like we used to.”

“Whatever my lady wishes,” Fred acquiesced, throwing himself down beside her and sliding a hand up the back of her neck. He pulled her into a deep, open-mouthed kiss, tongue slipping maddeningly past her teeth.

“C’mere—” George tugged her into a kiss of his own, and she slung her leg over his lap to straddle his hips.

He was inside her before she knew what was happening, driving his impossibly hard length into her with hungry, haphazard insistence. She threw her head back and exhaled a shuddering moan, almost a laugh. His eyes fell closed as he bottomed out, legs tight, back arching despite himself. A low, desperate groan tore from his throat as she reflexively tightened around him.

“Oh, _no_ you don’t,” he panted, gripping her hipbones and holding her still, “That sort of behavior’s liable to put a quick stop to this.”

“Oh, you’re no fun anymore,” she laughed breathlessly.

She felt an arm slip around her from behind, crossing possessively over her chest. Fred took an indulgent handful of her breast, squeezing roughly as his nose pressed into her neck. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, reaching out behind her for his cock. He moved in closer, dropping to his knees beside the couch. With an abrupt palm between her shoulder blades, he bent her forward, into George’s arms. He met her lips, open mouthed, tonguing hungrily as they felt Fred slip two of his fingers in alongside his brother. She gasped with the thrill of it.

George exhaled a litany of desperate expletives, giving a single, careful thrust.

“Be gentle,” she reminded him in a whisper, lightheaded with anticipation.

“I always am,” he reassured her, drawing his fingers in and out, “That’s why I’m back here, and he’s down there.”

“Get stuffed,” George laughed weakly, beginning to match his brother’s slow, torturous rhythm. He was gazing up at her with wide eyes, and an open mouth. She could just hear the soft, desperate sounds rising from his throat. And then Fred withdrew his hand, replacing it with something else entirely.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned, trying to relax into it.

George’s arms tightened around her, their voices rising in unison as Fred slowly began to inch his way inside. She bore down, pressing back into him, languidly savoring the unique sensation. It was like they were splitting her apart, but the pain was delicious. Unmatched by anything else in the world.

She was only distantly aware of the moment he made his way inside her. She could hear her own voice rising to an ecstatic cry. She could feel her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. But she was, for some reason, fixated on the thrilling number of hands on her body. It was something she’d never become numb to, all the years they’d been doing this together. She snapped back to awareness, however, when they began to fuck her. It was awkward, at first, and they struggled to find their rhythm against each other. They were very drunk, she allowed. All three of them were. But once they fell into it, it was like her mind shut down entirely. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. All she could feel was warmth and friction and _fullness_ , swelling and pulsing; George’s heart beating against her chest and Fred’s breath on her ear.

The whiskey had given them unrealistic stamina, and they wore on for what seemed like hours. After a while, Fred made them change positions. He reclined on the couch, laying Ophelia back against his chest and entering her from below. He took her alone for a few minutes, one hand on her hipbone, and the other lightly clasping her throat. He wanted to feel her breath beneath his palm, wanted to feel the life coursing through her, just as he was. It was an irrational, whiskey-fueled thought, he knew that. But no less intimate, in his mind. No less pleasurable. And although she was nearly his height, she was so slight that to take her this way felt almost effortless. The notion had occurred to him that he’d likely wake up tomorrow with aching muscles, from this particular act, but he wore on nonetheless. It was too good to stop for such a trivial reason as that.

George watched them for a while, transfixed by this sight he’d never seen before. His hand moved indulgently across his own length as he sat on the couch beside them. It was like he was watching himself fuck her, and he was drunk enough that the perverseness of it only thrilled him. For the briefest of moments, he considered leaving the pair alone together. He’d had her to himself more times than he could count, but Fred never had. Maybe they deserved an experience without him. But then, like she was reading his mind, she beckoned to him. Palm upturned, whispering his name like it was the last thing she’d ever say.

“Georgie,” she begged, “Please.”

He was powerless to refuse.

He crawled up between their legs, and slipped back in beside Fred. They all cried out in unison, that strange number of hands all moving to clutch at each other. It was where he belonged, George though distantly. Where all three of them belonged. Right here, with each other.

He fell into their rhythm effortlessly, with one hand braced against the back of the couch, and the other holding a white-knuckle grip on her hipbone. His fingers were laced together with his brother’s, and they moved as one. Fred felt a little like he was being suffocated beneath them, but he didn’t mind. In fact, it was oddly thrilling.

They didn’t last long, after George joined in again. And, for the first time, Ophelia led the charge. The could feel her tensing up, her back beginning to stiffen. Fred murmured fevered encouragement in her ear, his hand tightening around her throat despite himself. George couldn’t take his eyes off of them. He was transfixed by their faces. The hot flush in their skin, the light sheen of sweat on their cheeks. How close Fred’s lips were to her ear, as he whispered to her.

And then she tipped over the edge, dragging the two of them along with her. The feeling of her tightening around them was too much. It was unlike anything they’d ever felt before, all three of them coming at the same time. Muscles tight, skin tingling with the sharp, slick pleasure of it. The twins pulsed against each other, pressed together so tightly as they poured themselves into her. She bore down on them hard, eyes fixed on George’s face. For a split second, none of them knew where they ended, and the others began. And that was alright. More than alright, it was perfect.

Just as they were about to fall asleep, Ophelia exhaled a monosyllabic laugh.

“ _What_?” they demanded in unison, startled by her outburst.

“As if—” she chuckled, “As if you’d have to _take_ _turns_!”

Despite their exhaustion, they couldn’t help but laugh.


	8. In Praise of Bacchus *Explicit Content*

The days that followed were the closest thing to bliss that Ophelia Lestrange had ever known. Just her, and Fred, and George; together. Nothing to do but be with each other. They drank, they danced, they made love. No war, no fear. Just warmth.

One night, they found themselves in a place they’d never been, before. Their passion was always so hot and quick and electric. Explosive, like so many fireworks. But this was different. They were sitting on the floor of the drawing room, now onto their second bottle of wine. No music, for once. They were locked in a kind of languid, fevered dream. Things moved slowly, things went unspoken but understood. Things _built_.

It had been Ophelia’s idea to play with the cards, dealing the deck out evenly between the three of them.

Fred flipped over a four.

George had a seven.

Ophelia had an ace.

“Aces high.” She cocked an eyebrow, flicking the card at George. “Your shirt.”

He obliged, tugging it off over his head and discarding it across the room. The sight of his lean, bare chest made her senses heighten. It made her want to lick the freckles off his skin.

She drew a three.

Fred had Jack.

George had a Queen.

“You.” George pointed to Ophelia. “Top off.”

With a wry smile, she undid the clasp over her breasts, and slipped the shirt out from beneath the top of her corseted skirt. She tossed it towards the slowly blinking George, and he clumsily caught it.

George drew an eight.

Fred drew a six.

Ophelia drew a six.

She was reaching for the laces on her skirt, when George stopped her.

“No,” he commanded in a husky whisper, “Go and take Fred’s shirt off.”

Equal parts surprised and thrilled, she did as she was told. Fred leaned back on his hands and watched with wide eyes and bated breath as she crawled across the floor towards him, and then her hands were sliding up his torso, working through the buttons with a kind of torturous slowness. Fingertips brushed along his bare shoulders, slipping the shirt off. For the briefest of moments, her lips made sizzling contact with the freckled skin of his chest, and then she was gone, retreating back across the room to where she’d been sitting before, and Fred finally exhaled. He left the shirt hanging from his elbows, afraid to move. Afraid to break this trance.

Ophelia drew a nine.

Fred drew a Jack.

George drew a two.

“You,” he breathed, pointing at George, “Get the rest of that off her.”

He crawled over to kneel between her legs, snaking his arms around her waist to fiddle with the laces on the back of her skirt. She was looking up at him, he could feel it. The warmth of her breath against the edge of his jaw sent gooseflesh all across his skin. He tugged the laces loose; unevenly, she noted, but she was beyond caring. And then in a single, swift movement, he released the clasps on the front, and the garment fell away. For the first time, the twins took in the sight of the black lace garter belt around her waist, the stockings that seemed to be painted on her legs. The sight of it, paired with the knife still strapped to her thigh…

Ophelia gasped as George ran a covetous hand up her leg, catching him by the wrist. He looked up at her in surprise.

“That’s not the rules,” she whispered, heavily-lidded gaze traveling across his face for a moment before coming to rest on his lips. And then she dismissed him with a quick jerk of her head. “Get back over there.”

The room was spinning from the wine as George reluctantly returned to his spot, and drew a ten.

Ophelia had a four.

Fred had a King.

He pointed at Ophelia. “Get rid of your knickers,” he commanded, “But leave the rest of that… Exciting stuff.”

She leaned back on her elbows, taking a languid sip from her glass. “Come over here and do it yourself.”

“That’s not the rules,” he mocked.

“It’s my game,” she confidently parried, “I invented it, so I make the rules.”

With a hungry look in his eye, Fred crawled up between her legs, slipping his fingers through the leg of her underwear.

She put a stiletto-clad foot on his shoulder. His reaction was slow and fevered, and he inspected her foot for a moment before looking up at her in confusion.

“No,” she commanded, reaching out to run her thumb along his bottom lip, “Your mouth.”

He blinked slowly, and then bent to take the delicate lace between his teeth. She watched in silence as he worked them down, delighting in the feeling of his warm breath as it traveled across her skin.

George watched, wide-eyed. He reached blindly for his wine glass, only to find it empty. He discarded it over his shoulder, instead opting to drink straight from the open bottle. He could feel his heart thumping almost uncomfortably in his ears, feel his jeans getting tighter and tighter.

He hadn’t protested, when she’d suggested this game. Not after the other night, not after he’d so enjoyed watching her and Fred together. But things were starting to become more urgent, now, as Fred slipped her underwear down past her foot and bent to kiss her inner thigh. Slowly, George’s hand drifted between his own legs.

“Ah-ah-ah!” she scolded, taking Fred by the chin, “Play right! And you—” she pointed to George, “Hands off!”

George groaned quietly, head falling back, as he snatched for his deck of cards. “Ophelia, I swear…” He drew an Ace, and a hot, prickling thrill crawled across his skin.

Fred drew a King.

O had a Jack.

Close, to be sure, but he was the victor.

“How’s this for playing right,” he breathed, flicking his card at Ophelia, “You come over here and do it for me.”

The clink of his belt buckle as she pushed his jeans down sent a flash of heat across her face. And then, when she palmed him roughly through the material of his underwear, his achingly-hard cock jerked up in her hand. A ragged moan tore from his throat, and he arched up into her touch. But, as quickly as she’d been upon him, she was gone again.

“This is just cruel,” he moaned.

Fred drew a five.

O drew a Queen.

George had a two.

She knew what she wanted to say. The idea had been gnawing away at her, quite distractingly, since the moment they’d started this. It was bold. Perhaps too bold, even for them.

“Oi!” Fred needled, breaking her trance, “Get on with it, I’m gasping.” The sight of her over there wearing only a knife had triggered a very pleasant urgency between his legs.

“Each other,” she blurted, nodding between them. She could feel the instant surge of regret, but held her head high nonetheless.

George’s face went red. He turned to his twin, lips parted just slightly. Fred seemed not to notice, instead laughing explosively.

“Yeah, _right_! What are you on about? Oph—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish. George had launched himself across the floor, taken his brother’s face in his hands, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Ophelia was shocked. Fred fell backwards, knocked off balance, and George followed, sprawling out on top of him. They each made some small sound of surprise, but they did not stop.

The vague thought skittered through Fred’s mind, “ _Fuck, I’m hard_. _Why am I hard? God, he’s hard, too._ ”

It was far from the most shocking thing they’d ever done to each other. But that had always involved O, and they’d never _kissed_ before, aside from that one time in the Common Room, but that wasn’t like _this_. And Ophelia was all the way across the room, and Fred’s hand was winding through his twin brother’s hair, and all at once George realized that if he stopped, he’d have to look Fred in the eye, and he didn’t think he’d be able to do that _or maybe he definitely would._

Fred opened his mouth, and it occurred to George what he might be asking for, but the instant he stuck his tongue out, Fred was laughing red-wine breath into his face, and it made George start to laugh, too.

“You’re _so drunk_!” Fred wheezed, shoving his brother on the shoulder.

“ _You’re_ drunk!” George bickered, shoving him back.

“ _She’s_ drunk!” Fred announced, thrusting an accusatory finger towards Ophelia, as though he’d just made a brilliant discovery, “Making us do a filthy thing like that!”

“No,” she stammered, shrinking back a little. The mood was utterly ruined, now, and she was a little afraid they’d be angry with her. “No, you didn’t _have_ to do that! No one held you at wand-point and _forced_ you!”

George shrugged, admitting in a small voice, “Yeah, I sorta wanted to, anyway.”

Fred cast him a disbelieving expression, sputtering for a moment before he managed, “Mate, I can’t tell if that makes you a tart or a narcissist!”

George and Ophelia’s replies came in unison: “ _Tart_.”

His head fell to Fred’s chest. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“I reckon we’re due some sort of recompense, for that,” Fred whispered, though George couldn’t help but notice the way his fingers were curling so sweetly through his hair at the back of his neck.

“You think?”

“Yeah, I’ve had about enough of this rubbish, let’s get her.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

On cue, they did just that, launching themselves across the room towards Ophelia.

“No, no, the _game_!” she protested weakly, as two sets of hands muscled up from the floor. Even still, she couldn’t hide the relieved laugh in her voice. “The _game_ , Freddie! There are _rules_! You can’t—"

The end of the sentence disappeared into George’s open mouth, fading to a ragged moan.

Fred scoffed in disbelief. “Rules? How dare you!” He snatched her back from George, hoisting her up over his shoulder.

“Did you just say the word ‘ _rules’_ to us?”

With that, he hauled her off into the bedroom, George stumbling along with his pants slipping down to his ankles.


	9. On the Arrow

On New Year’s Eve, Fred awoke to find himself alone in the bed. He stretched lazily, blinking against the shaft of bright, blue light streaming in from between the curtains. It was cold. Snowing, as far as he could tell. He was about to call out for George and O, maybe make some joke about what they were getting up to behind his back, when he heard a laugh from the sitting room. That high, clear, genuine laugh of hers that made his heart pound every time like it was the first time. He smiled. Rolling out of bed, he dragged the duvet along with him, wrapping it around his shoulders and shuffling sleepily towards the sound.

He paused in the doorway when he saw them. They were sitting on the rug, beneath the bay window. Ophelia was settled in between George’s legs while he fiddled with her hair. He was always messing about with her hair, Fred realized, a little amused by the observation. And then, when she bent down, he noticed that she was painting George’s toenails that dreadful shade of black she was always sporting. Fred laughed softly, shaking his head in dismay.

All at once, out of the silence, she began to sing.

“ _He said, who truly belongs here?_

_Not I, she said, I’ll lie here with you._

_She knows no one shines forever,_

_They change with the weather_.”

It was a slow, melancholy tune, seeming to have been written for her voice.

“ _She said, I’ve now stayed too long here,_

_Goodbye, he said, I’ll wait here for you._

_She knows the winds carry sorrow,_

_As they leave she’ll follow, they leave tomorrow.”_

Fred leaned against the doorframe, watching the sad smile spread across his brother’s face. With an odd pang, he realized it was precisely the same expression he was wearing.

“ _He said, who truly belongs here?_

_Not I, she said, I’ll lie here to you._

_I know the sorrow is sacred, and I’ll never break you._

_I’ll softly save you._

_Fragments of joy torn apart, a freshly drained heart,_

_That beats, disguise themselves through him._

_She’ll say that it’s nothing new, and swear this is true,_

_For you, I’ll swallow the ocean.”_

George murmured something that Fred couldn’t quite make out, bending to press a kiss to Ophelia’s cheek. She sat back against his chest **,** taking him by the hands to fold his arms in around her.

Fred, suddenly realizing that he’d yet to say or do anything obnoxious this morning, called out to them. “Oi!”

They jumped at the sound of his voice, Ophelia clutching at her chest in shock.

“Damn you, Fred!”

“That song’s _sad_!” Still wrapped in his duvet, Fred strode across the room towards them. “What are you singing him a sad thing like that for?” he managed through a yawn, “You’re gonna turn him all spooky, like you!”

“I am not!” she snapped, more than a little indignant.

“Sing something nice!” he demanded, flopping down between her legs and wailing, “ _You'll hang the hearts black and dull as the night_!”

Ophelia laughed. “How is that any less spooky than what I was singing?”

In a soft voice, George half-sung, “ _Still being cried and laughed at before_.”

Fred gasped comically, looking between the pair. “ _Now_ look what you’ve done to him, Lestrange!”

“You started in on that song,” she dismissed, “Not me!”

Fred took hold of his brother’s ankle, waving his foot back and forth in her face. It nearly knocked George over backwards. “What’s all this, then?”

“Oi!” George protested, kicking at him weakly.

Ophelia laughed ruefully. “A preview of what’s to come for _you_ , Fred Fabian.”

He grimaced, dropping George’s foot with no ceremony. “Loving you’s like loving the dead, Lestrange, you know that?”

She broke into a wide, satisfied grin, taking Fred’s face in her hands and tugging him into a kiss.

“Where’s mine?” George giggled, swatting for his twin.

“Get fucked,” Fred laughed, shoving George away by the cheek, “That was a one-off.”

“That’s what you said the first time,” he pointed out.

“You know, I reckon you beat for both teams, mate,” Fred remarked oddly, giving his brother a quizzical look.

George shrugged, nonplussed. “As long as I win.”

“Oh!” Ophelia suddenly perked up, veritably quivering with excitement, “Would you like some breakfast, my darling? Georgie showed me, and I made it all myself! I didn’t even use magic or _anything_!”

Fred cocked an eyebrow at his twin.

George gave him a swift, negating shake of his head.

Luckily, Ophelia seemed not to notice the exchange.

“Yeah, sure, love,” Fred conceded, his enthusiasm tellingly forced, “Sounds lovely.”

She leapt to her feet, rushing into the kitchen to fix him a plate. As soon as she was around the corner, and they could hear her banging around with cutlery and flatware, Fred gave his brother another, more intensely questioning look.

“She _cooked_?”

“You should’ve seen her,” George divulged in a whisper, “Fred, I don’t think she understood where food even came from. I reckon she just thought it… I dunno, _appeared_.”

Fred laughed softly. “That’s our girl, for you, eh?”

George shook his head. “I did most of the work, and all, but I’d still be careful putting _any_ of that in your—Hey, gorgeous!”

The twins looked up brightly as she swept back into the room, proudly handing Fred a plate of what could’ve possibly been considered a full English. By some very loose definition.

Fred smiled broadly, pulling her down into a kiss. “Ahh, thanks, love.”

“You’re welcome!” As quickly as she’d come, she hurried off, back into the bedroom, still humming _Cherry-Colored Funk_. “What should I wear tonight?” she called out to them, and they could hear her rifling through the dresser drawers.

“ _Fuck all_ ,” they replied in unison.

“Oh, _ha, ha_ , you’re just so very _funny_ , aren’t you?” It was sarcastic, but they could hear the smile in her voice, nonetheless.

Fred, meanwhile, made his first, cautious attempt the fried egg, only to find a substantial amount of shell still remaining. It actually crunched, when he bit down on it. In a rather barbaric move, he opened his mouth, stuck his tongue out, and let the entire mouthful drop straight back out onto the plate.

He looked up at his twin, grimacing violently. “Did you forget to tell her to take the white, outsidey-bits off?” he demanded in a whisper.

George was being wracked by silent laughter, face going rather red in his attempt to keep quiet. “You should’ve seen her try to _poach_ one, Freddie!”

“Unbelievable.” Fred shook his head, and set about picking the eggshells out of his back teeth with his fingertip.

“Go on, then, try the black pudding,” George nearly choked.

“ _You_ try the black pudding,” Fred chuckled, scooping up the charred sausage and catapulting it at George from the tines of his fork.

He ducked just in time, and they heard it land on the floor behind him with a dense _clunk_. Undeterred, Fred loaded up his veritable _roof tile_ of blackened toast, closing one eye to take aim at his twin, while George scrambled for the sausage. Just as he was winding up to throw it at Fred, they heard her footsteps returning.

“ _Oh, bollocks_.”

They quickly replaced the toast and sausage, and in a stroke of brilliance, George vanished half of the plate’s contents with a flick of his wand.

“Thanks,” Fred whispered hurriedly, just as she stepped back into the room.

“How is it?” she asked brightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as she walked by.

“Just as delightful as I knew it would be,” he beamed.

.

.

.

At the stroke of midnight, Fred and George set off a massive firework display from the roof of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. They’d received special clearance from the Ministry, and hundreds of people had come out just to see it. Ophelia watched from amidst the crush of onlookers down on the street, crammed between Bill and Fleur, with the hood of her cloak pulled low over her face.

It was a chaotic ballet of color and light, painted across the velvet sky to the beat of explosive, staccato percussion. Brilliant, soaring vermillion, gold, and acid green; bright spirals and fiery sparks whipping and whizzing overhead, perforating wildly through the night.

But Ophelia was less interested in the display than in the fleeting glimpses of Fred and George up above, silhouetted in multicolor from their place on the roof. She devoured so ravenously the brief flashes of their smiles, and the way their eyes were upturned in pride. Occasionally, George could be seen glancing down at the street, as if to check that she was still watching. And, to his delight, she always was.

The twins, like their fireworks, were such a paradoxical blend of chaos and predictability: brilliant and impatient, and so alive in the way they burned and danced. They were explosive gifts finding their own time and space to possess, halting for no one. Cutting through the black as though they’d been super-imposed on the night, like the stars behind were there only as a backdrop brought in for the occasion. It warmed her even in the cold, as if their stray sparks were passing into her very blood.

But, like all sparks, no matter how bright, these too were fleeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homework assignment: listen to the chorus of Cherry-Coloured Funk by the Cocteau Twins, and then imagine Fred Weasley stomping around the house with a duvet over his head, wailing it at the top of his lungs.


	10. Get Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini-chapter, for dramatic effect
> 
> Shit's about to get sad, y'all

It was waiting for her, mixed in with the rest of the mail on her bed when she arrived back to Hogwarts. Just a scrap of parchment in a plain, unmarked envelope, bearing one single word:

**_Freedom_ **

The stilted, sinister handwriting of Rabastan Lestrange. A flickering candle extinguishing in an icy wind.

Ophelia clapped a hand over her mouth, but not before the faintest whimper of fear tore from her throat. She pressed her eyes shut, shook her head frantically, as though her denial would somehow un-make it. As though it would all just _go away_ if she refused to accept it for long enough.

But how many months had she already wasted on denial? On this flat refusal to acknowledge the truth: that someday, he would get out again? She’d tried so hard to swallow it, to ignore it and _pretend_ , and _now_ …

She wasn’t ready. Would she ever have been ready? Would _anything_ have mattered, ever, ever, _ever_?

It felt like hands tightening around her throat. Twisting. Wringing. The shift of an eclipse, darkness at the edges of her vision.

The letter folded between her fingers, crumpling in her shaking fists.

A voice sounded from behind her. “Ophelia.”

“What?” she snapped, whipping around furiously.

Draco was standing in the doorway to her dormitory, looking nearly as fearful as she did. “I’ve done it,” he announced in a quavering voice, “While you were gone, I— I fixed it. It’s fixed.”

She blinked up at him for a moment, trying to get a handle on what he was talking about. “You… What?”

“The Vanishing Cabinet,” he impressed, “It’s _fixed_.”


	11. Aurelia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurelia, the new wolves await.  
> Aurelia, they brought you new chains.  
> Aurelia, dream animals' wills,  
> Are real enough to make the slow kill.  
> They're barking in the wrong key,  
> And you sing along.

Albus Dumbledore was dead. It had all happened so quickly: following Draco to the Room of Requirement, watching them file out of the cabinet. Her father and uncle pressing kisses to her face, murmuring a kind of deadened, muted compassion to her in the dark. Taking her by the hand to lead her to the Astronomy Tower. And then… And then…

Her rational mind understood the fact of what she’d just witnessed, but the weight of it, the _meaning_ , hadn’t yet taken hold. Bellatrix was screaming and cheering, dancing around Draco like a banshee, and Snape was just was standing there, wand arm still outstretched, wearing a sort of blank, wide-eyed expression. Maybe it hadn’t hit him yet, either, what he’d just done. The sheer _betrayal_ of what he’d just done. Maybe he just didn’t care. And why? _Why, why, why, WHY?_

 _“You have to tell me where you’re going,”_ she’d insisted. Begged, even. Trailing after him around his office as he’d prepared to leave, pleading for some scrap of information.

Ophelia swallowed hard, and a weak kind of croak escaped her throat.

And he’d given her nothing. Dumbledore had given her nothing, just like it had been all year. Why hadn’t she pushed him harder, in the end? Why hadn’t—?

Snape was looking at her. His depthless, black eyes met hers and her blood ran cold.

 _Do something_ , she told herself, throat beginning to tighten.

And then she looked to her father, beaming with ravenous pride, rumbling laughter shaking up from his chest.

 _God,_ do _something, or you’ll be next! You know the incantation, now_ do _it!_

Willing her limbs to move, willing the voice from her throat, Ophelia leapt onto the stone barrier lining the top of the astronomy tower and thrust her wand skyward. _Don’t look down, don’t look down. He’s down there. Maybe still falling. Don’t look._

“ _Morsmordre_!!!” she cried, watching in thinly veiled horror as twists of green smoke shot forth from the tip of her wand. Behind her, Bellatrix’s cackling reached a fever pitch, joined soon by the rest of the Death Eaters.

She was vaguely aware that Snape was commanding everyone to flee, that their work here was done, but he sounded so far away.

_You did that. You cast the Dark Mark. What have you done? Dumbledore is dead, my god, it really happened. All these months, didn’t you know it was coming? But now—_

“Quickly, child!” Her father took her by the wrist, wrenching her from the stone barrier. He took her face in his hands as their quarry began to flee. “You’ve done so well,” he murmured, beaming, “You will be rewarded greatly for this.”

The stormed through the castle, making no attempt at stealth. Bellatrix was casting destructive spells in every direction, shattering windows, toppling stone columns; all the while, shrieking gleefully. Distantly, Ophelia registered that they were being pursued by Harry. In the courtyard, they came upon Fenrir, crouched over in the shadows.

“Greyback!” Rodolphus commanded, “Leave that, now, we’re through here!”

With a furious growl, the werewolf stood and joined the throng. His hands and face were covered in blood. Ophelia looked to where he had been crouched, and it was a long moment before she realized what she was seeing. She reached out stupidly, hands shaking in her terror. Whether she was screaming or not, she couldn’t be sure. But no one seemed to be reacting.

Bill Weasley was sprawled limply across the cobblestones, his blindingly handsome face rendered a wet mass of flesh and gristle. Torn open by teeth and claws.

“What are you doing?” Rabastan snapped, yanking her hard by the wrist, “Let’s _go_!”

Somewhere near Hagrid’s hut, Harry started casting hexes, even managing to wing Bellatrix with a _Cruciatus_ curse. Snape hung back to handle him.

Once they were deep inside the Forbidden Forest, her father took her by the wrist and they Disapparated, reappearing outside Château Lestrange.

The rest of the night was a blur. She was taken by her father, her aunt, and her uncle to a secluded room of the manor, and there they performed a seemingly endless litany of spells and curses. All the while, praising her loyalty, her cunning, her bravery.

“We will not see the Malfoy child take credit for this extraordinary victory.”

“ _Cauterio_!”

Her skin seared with pain, dark lines snaking their way across her flesh, traced by blistering wand-tips.

“Dumbledore’s death belongs to Lestrange.”

“To Ophelia Lestrange.”

“ _Sigillum diabolica!”_

Through it all, she held her head high. She showed no signs of weakness, as these evil people murmured their evil things, branding her with their evil protections. Dark protections she had no want for.

“ _Contego tueor_.”

“ _Obscuria_.”

When a single tear slid down her cheek, she masked it as a tear of pride, thrusting her chin into the air, stiffening her jaw against the pain and the fear.

 _(“I just want to know how it will end,”_ she’d told Dumbledore, _“I want to be sure of what it will cost.”)_

“ _Furia animosius_.”

_(“And I wish, more than anything, Ophelia, that I could give that to you. Alas, it cannot be known. All we can do is prepare, and not lose sight of that which gives us hope.”)_

“ _Cauterio vipera_!”

The incantations dripped from their lips like poison, worming their way into her body. Becoming a part of her, forever.

“ _Furia corynx.”_

“ _Compugno aeternum.”_

By the time they finished, it was nearly dawn. When it was over, they praised her once more, and she finally collapsed to her knees in the center of the room and vomited. Her school robes were torn and bloody, barely clinging to her broken body. Her skin throbbed and ached; the occasional stab of pain shooting through one mark or another.

“Am I free to leave?” she demanded, voice tinted with pain.

Her father took her by the chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “My sweet child,” he whispered, smiling, “You are a loyal servant to the Dark Lord. Go where you will, for no one will dare stand in your way.”

“But heed the Mark,” Rodolphus commanded, “Continue your work. And await his next command.”

Ophelia closed her eyes, and for the first time, evanesced into a cloud of black smoke. She would Apparate that way for the rest of her life.

As soon as she was gone, Rabastan’s proud smile turned to a furious scowl. “She’ll be running of to those ugly little blood-traitor boys of hers, now.”

Rodolphus rounded on his brother, aghast. “Good!” he snapped, “That’s precisely where she _should_ go!”

“How can you say that?”

“She’s giving them a wounded bird to tend to,” he lectured, “Bringing them the proof of her family’s terrible cruelty, as if she hasn’t been waiting her entire life for this night. She’s deepening their trust in her, at this critical moment.”

Rabastan opened his mouth as if to argue, but his brother interrupted.

“ _Tais-toi_ ,” he spat, “ _Ne parle pas de choses que tu ne comprends pas_.”

With a final sneer, Rabastan pocketed his wand, and stormed away.

.

.

.

The cobblestones seemed to rise up to meet her as Ophelia materialized on the darkened street outside of 93 Diagon Alley. Her collision with the ground was so forceful, so graceless, that she briefly saw stars.

After a moment, she heard a window creak open, high above. And then Fred’s shout. “Who’s out there? What do you want?”

She swallowed hard, and managed to choke out a single, pleading syllable.

“God, Fred, that’s O.”

“Oh _fuck_.”

George was frantic. “Stay there, love, we’re coming down!”

She listened as the window slammed. And then, a moment later, the front door opened with a bang, and the rapid stamping of footsteps grew nearer and nearer. She reached out feebly, vision beginning to swim. She had already been weakened by pain, and Apparating was the final straw of an already-toppled load.

“F-Fred—Geo—”

They fell to their knees beside her, wands slipping from their fingers and clattering to the cobblestones.

“What _happened_?” George begged, hands hovering cautiously over her.

She sobbed weakly, reaching out to clutch at the hem of his shirt. “H-h-help me.”

Fred knelt to bring her into his arms, but she cried out in pain at his touch.

“I _know_ ,” George tried to soothe her, voice breaking, “I _know_ , love, just a little longer!”

It took no effort whatsoever for Fred to lift her. No longer lean and slender, as she’d been at Christmas, she was gaunt. Little more than skin and bone. She clung to him with all the strength she had left as he carried her gingerly into the shop and up the stairs.

“Fred, why’s she Apparating like that?”

“You know why.”

“I thought they—Ahh, _fuck_.”

They had finally stepped into the light of their flat, and for the first time, saw the blood covering her neck and arms, dripping onto the floor.

“Get a bath drawn,” Fred commanded.

As the water ran, filling the tub, they crouched on the floor beside it and began to delicately peel away her shredded, bloody school robes. Tugging off her boots, unstrapping the dagger from her thigh. Her muscles were tight as bowstrings, arms drawn up against her chest in a kind of desperate, defensive position. The wounds seemed not to end, scraping their way across her chest and arms, but their form was still obscured by thick smears of blood.

“ _Tergio_!”

“No, she’s still bleeding. Help me—”

She wailed when they lowered her into the water, black-lacquered fingernails digging into the rim of the tub. The water around her instantly went red, laced with strange wisps of black from a source they couldn’t yet identify.

George began the low, steady chant, “ _Vulnera Sanentur_ , _Vulnera Sanentur_ ,” waving his wand in graceful circles over her shaking form. A wild guess. By some miracle, it worked.

Gradually, she began to still, her eyes fluttering closed. Her arms fell limply into the water, and she sank up to her chin. The bleeding slowed, and then finally stopped altogether. Gently, lovingly, they washed the blood from her face, wringing it from her long hair. She was unconscious, then, and very, very pale.

“Should I wake her?”

“No,” Fred said, “Leave her lie, I reckon she needs it.”

“What did they do to her?” he whispered mournfully.

“I don’t know, Georgie.” With a wave of his wand, Fred cleared the blood from the water, and immediately exhaled a single sob.

Where once there had been an expanse of porcelain skin, her neck and chest now bore a macabre tangle of black tattoos. They spread from a massive, Lestrange raven carved just below her collarbone; wings spread, long talons extending like knives towards her heart. Arcane symbols crawled to the tips of her bony shoulders. A tight pattern of intricate, geometric diamonds wrapped around her neck, ending at her jawline. A bloodstained dagger was thrust down between her breasts, along her sternum. Not at all dissimilar from the one she wore strapped to her thigh. A thick, black snake wound its way down her right arm, its wide jaws spread between her thumb and forefinger to make it seem that it was gripping her wand in its mouth. Each scale had been rendered in perfect, terrifying detail, as though it were alive just beneath her skin. Solid, black bands hugged her left bicep and wrist, framing her Dark Mark. And each of her fingers bore new marks, as well: tight clusters of lines, twisting symbols, and jagged, baneful runes. The only recognizable text was a single word, etched along the edge of her right hand in tilted, sinister script: _Morsmordre_.

George slid his hand into hers, pressing her palm to his lips and holding it there. Tears were working their way, steadily and silently, down his cheeks. Fred sank to the floor in despair, clutching his wand so tightly that he was distantly afraid it would snap.

“Dittany,” George suddenly realized aloud, tearing his eyes from his lover’s unconscious form, “Or Wiggenweld?”

“Fuck, I dunno,” his twin replied, scrambling to his feet and sprinting from the room.

“Hang in there, love,” George whispered, dragging a strand of wet hair from her face. Dark blue crescents hung heavy below her sunken eyes.

Out in the kitchen, Fred could be heard shouting desperate spells. “ _Accio Dittany! Accio Wiggenweld_!” After a moment, he slid back into the doorway, carrying an armful of supplies. “Got it.”

He knelt beside the tub, un-stoppering the small phial containing Essence of Dittany. George held her hand up, and a few drops landed on the tattoo of a sun adorning one of her knuckles. It hissed, characteristic green steam rising from the mark. And then—

Nothing.

They tried again, applying a few drops to the raven on her chest. This time, through the steam, the tattoo began to bleed again.

“It’s no use,” George announced, voice quavering with grief, “It’s no—No bloody _fucking_ use at all, is it?”

Fred poured some of the Wiggenweld into a glass, gently bringing it to her lips. To their relief, she swallowed. And after a few moments, her face seemed to regain some of its color.

“Least we know this’ll help,” Fred breathed, suddenly aware how tense his muscles had been.

“Yeah,” George nodded. “Let’s get her into bed.”

Fred knelt, gently taking her bare body into his arms. He could do it much more easily by magic, he knew. But he needed to hold her. He needed to press her to his chest and lend her some of his warmth. He needed to protect her. He handed her off to George, who wrapped her in a towel. Tiny, red spots bloomed on the white fabric. Her head fell back limply, and Fred delicately wrung out her hair before lifting it back up and resting her cheek against his brother’s shoulder.

“God dammit,” he recoiled, clapping a hand over his mouth. After a moment, he reached out to gingerly trace his fingers along the skin of her now-exposed neck and upper back.

George craned his neck to see what had startled him, only to find that a jet-black diagram of a human spine had been tattooed directly over her own. It disappeared up into her hairline, extending down past where they could see.

Fred transfigured the beds together and they laid her down, pulling the blanket up over her bare body before taking their places either side of her.

“What do we do?” George whispered to his brother.

“I don’t know,” Fred replied bitterly, tipping some more Wiggenweld into her mouth. “I don’t know. Wait for her to wake up.”

“Hope like hell that whoever did this doesn’t come ‘round looking for her.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, lowering the lights with a flick of his wand. “I mean— Yeah. I reckon it’s all we can do.”

“Her and Bill, in one night. God, Freddie…” It suddenly dawned on him. “You don’t think she was there, do you? When Dumbledore died?”

He shook his head. “I dunno. But why else is she here, instead of with Madame Pomfrey?”


	12. Bleed Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know what died that night.  
> It can never be brought back to life,  
> Once again, I know.

The twins awoke several hours later to find the space between them empty. When they emerged anxiously into the sitting room, they were relieved to find their lover. Finally conscious, Ophelia was curled up in an armchair, wrapped in one of their long, burgundy dressing gowns, with her knees pulled up to her chest. She gazed mournfully at the rain as it pattered against the window, her fingertips tracing absently along the fresh, black marks on her skin. A glass of Wiggenweld sat balanced on the arm of her chair, but her face was still pale.

“Ophelia,” Fred announced their presence gently, as they crossed the room to sit on the floor before her.

She looked to them with an almost dreamlike expression, as though she’d been pulled from deep sleep by his voice. She couldn’t help but notice the smears of blood lingering on their clothes. Her blood.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. Her voice was hoarse, but disarmingly serene. “I’m so sorry, I… I didn’t have anywhere else to go, they…” At that, she trailed off into silence.

George appealed softly, “What happened?”

Her gaze drifted back to the grey window, as though she couldn’t bear to look at them as she said it. “Dumbledore is dead.” It was the first time she’d said it aloud. And, somehow, that seemed to make it all so alarmingly real.

“We know. We heard that a group of Death Eaters attacked the castle and killed him in the astronomy tower. Bill—”

“Is he alive?” she interrupted, a hot wire of panic snapping in her chest.

“Yeah, he’s alive,” George reassured her.

“And still this side of human.”

She exhaled sharply, bringing both hands to her mouth. “Thank god,” she whispered shakily, “Thank god.”

“We went to see him at St. Mungos last night, before you… Arrived. Hang on, how did you know—?”

“I couldn’t possibly be welcome there, myself, so please just tell him I’m sorry,” she begged, “I’m so sorry, I’m such— Ah, I’m such a _coward_!”

“ _What_?”

“What are you on about?”

With that, the weight of all that had come to pass without their knowledge fell heavily on her shoulders. Her mouth hung open in dumb silence, as she looked between these two men whom she loved to much.

_How do I explain it?_ she silently agonized, _where would I possibly begin?_

Finally, she announced, “Snape is the one who killed Dumbledore.”

The twins were stunned, their dark theory confirmed. She was there. She had seen it.

“And it’s all my fault.”

“Ophelia, there’s no bloody way that’s true.”

She pressed her eyes shut hard, watching time play back in reverse. _Just say it. Just tell them, tell them everything._

“Montague,” she whispered, shaking her head in bitter dismay. “It was all… It started with Montague.”

Fred stammered for a moment. “What, that Slytherin bloke we knackered?”

“What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“ _Ophelia_!”

Finally, amidst the soft sound of the rain, Ophelia found her voice. All the quiet secrets she’d been keeping from them, begging to be released. “I’m the one who broke the Vanishing Cabinet.”

“What? No!” Fred argued, “What are you on about? Peeves broke that thing, years ago!”

“No,” she swiftly negated, “It was me. I knew the twin was in Borgin and Burkes, and I didn’t want… I didn’t want something like _this_ to happen…”

“Wait, hang on, what are you saying?”

“Draco brought the Death Eaters into the castle using that Cabinet,” she said, “Because Montague told him it could be done.”

She caught a glimpse of them as they exchanged worried glances.

“The… Death Eaters?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Hollow. Inadequate.

“Then _we_ did it!” Fred stammered, “It was us, _we_ killed Dumbledore!”

“No.” Her eyes slipped out of focus, as her gaze drifted out past the window. “No, I caused this,” she murmured, “I caused all of it. Because I thought I could keep you safe by keeping secrets, but that was so stupid and naïve, and I’m such a coward, I—”

“Ophelia,” George interrupted, desperate for an end to this horrifying revelation, “Please.”

“I told Dumbledore everything, you know,” she continued, “Right from the start. The cabinet, the necklace, the mead, all of it. Draco was meant to be the one to kill him, and I tried to stop it.” The words tugged uncomfortably at her self-awareness. _Did_ she try? Did she really? Wandering into the Room of Requirement everyone once in a while, to cast a few well-meaning, destructive spells at the cabinet, was that _really trying_? She swallowed hard. “But… Dumbledore, he just _let it happen_.” That’s right, she told herself. What small measure of a difference did my complacency really make, after all?

“ _Why_?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured madly, “I don’t know. The last thing he ever did was plead with Severus, and then he killed him. And I know you don’t trust Snape, but _he_ did. Dumbledore trusted him more than anyone else in the world. And I think they had some sort of… Arrangement. Snape instead of Draco. I know it sounds mad.” With a shuddering sigh, she turned to face the twins. “When it was done, I… I cast the Dark Mark over Hogwarts. That was me.”

“ _You what_?”

Ophelia nodded, brow furrowed. “It came from my hand. My wand, my _mouth_ , I said the word…” She was astounded with herself. Horrified.

“O, it’s in the papers!”

“I know,” she murmured madly. In reality, she hadn’t known that at all, and it broke her heart to hear.

“It’s on the front page of the Prophet!”

“Who knows it was you?”

“Are they gonna come and arrest you for it?”

“Do we need to hide you?”

“ _I don’t know_!” she nearly shouted, shaking her head frantically, “But Dumbledore said that they have to trust me! And now…” she opened the robe, forcing them to look, “Now they do.”

“Who did it?” Fred demanded, “Who did that to you?”

At once, it seemed as though her frantic worry burst and faded. Her eyes drifted down, tracing along the lines on her skin. “The Lestranges,” she answered, numb and dispassionate, “It’s an old tradition. They’re marks of protection. Initiation, for my… My side of the family. Sirius had some, too. You’ve seen them.”

She could see the sorrow in their eyes; the worry. Those expressions, so frank and self-evident, broke her heart to behold. They served as a painful reminder of why she worked so tirelessly to shield them from this part of her life.

And how truly destructive and futile an endeavor that had turned out to be.

“I’ll kill them,” George announced, “All of them.”

She closed the robe again, sitting back in her chair. “This is the cost of our victory.”

Fred shook his head in astonishment. “Why? Why you, why not—”

“Because I’m the only one who can.” After a long silence, she softly announced, “Everything is going to start speeding up, now. Everything is going to change.”

George’s face darkened. “Why do you say that?”

“Dumbledore’s dead,” Fred answered for her. “He was the last real obstacle standing in his way, wasn’t he?”

She nodded. “That’s exactly right.”

“Are you in danger?” George asked. He was aware of how childish it sounded, how naïve. But it was something he needed to acknowledge aloud. It was worrying him.

“My darling,” she said softly, “We’re all in danger.”

She moved to stand, nearly collapsing in the process. Her lovers leapt to their feet to catch her, George scooping her up into his arms.

“Take it easy, love,” he murmured, sitting down on the couch and cradling her on his lap. “We tried Dittany last night, but it didn’t help with the… You know.”

“Wiggenweld did wonders, though,” Fred reminded her, picking up the glass and sitting down beside them. He gently lifted her long legs, slipping them onto his lap.

“Thank you,” she said softly, taking a drink. She leaned her head into the crook of George’s neck, breathing deep the scent of him, sinking into his warmth. Finally safe, finally home, Ophelia suddenly burst into tears. She was as surprised and frightened by it as the twins were. But it was too much. The façade of her strength had crumbled, at last.

“Hey,” George murmured gently, rubbing his hand up and down her back, “You’re alright, love.”

Fred slid closer, squeezing her arm. “You just let it out,” he coaxed, “We’ve got you, now.”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” she sobbed, hands balling into tight fists, gripping at George’s shirt, “I’m sorry, I sh-shouldn’t be… _God_ , it’s not f-fair to you, I ask so much!”

George planted a kiss on her head, reassuring her, “You don’t ask a damn thing.”

“No haven’t you had enough, already?” she begged, “I _know_ that I’ll only end up hurting you before this is all over, I _know_ it, why aren’t you f-f- _frightened_? Why don’t you just r- _run_ from me?”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, O,” Fred murmured, “You’re the best of us. Truly.”

“But—” she extended her arms, gazing down at the evil marks with a kind of panicked realization in her eyes, “ _No, just look what they’ve done to me_!” Desperately, frantically, she began rubbing at the tattoos, clawing into them with her fingernails.

The twins grappled with her, trying to put a stop to her frenzy.

“Hey, that’s enough.”

“Stop that, now, love.”

“How can you bear to look at me, anymore?” she wept, “ _Just look at what they’ve done to me_!”

George finally succeeded in pinning her wrists to her chest, wrapping his arms around her so tightly that she couldn’t move. He pressed his nose into her cheek, face screwed up in so much sorrow and pain.

“You know what I see?” he whispered, choking back tears, “ _Battle scars_.”

Her breath hitched in her throat, tears still sliding down her cheeks. “No.”

“You and Sirius,” he reminded her, “You and Sirius are the only good people who have ever looked like this. So, you go out there and make him _proud_.”

“Freddie,” she beckoned weakly.

He dropped to the floor, kneeling beside the couch so he could be closer to the pair. He placed a hand on her chest, gripping her hand tightly.

“Those marks don’t make you evil, and they don’t make you weak. They make you a fucking _warrior_.”

She shook her head. “I’m not!”

“Yes you bloody well are! So, don’t you _dare_ do anything but hold your head high. And you wear them—” George swallowed hard, “You wear those fucking marks with _pride_.”

“No, I can’t,” she wept, “I can’t anymore, I’m just so tired. I’m so tired and so scared.”

“Then let us carry it,” Fred murmured gently, “Just for a little while.”

How, in good conscience, could she? It was all they’d done for her, the entire time they’d known each other. They’d take her in when she was broken, stitch all of her fraying pieces back on, love her intensely, make her laugh, and then she’d leave again. Abandon them to wonder and worry when they’d see her again. _If_ they’d see her again. It wasn’t fair to them. She asked too much, gave too little.

She pressed her eyes shut. “You remember the Quidditch World Cup?”

A low laugh rumbled through George’s chest, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah. How could I forget?”

“Your bloody Irish flags and your painted faces... Oh, and your _hair_. Could you ever have imagined, back then…” her voice faded, as she found herself faced with the immeasurable change that the years had brought. There was no way to sum it up.

“Did we imagine we’d wind up spending an inordinate amount of time hip-deep in your various and splendid orifices?” Fred finished for her, “No, I can’t say we did.”

It wasn’t what she meant, and she was fairly sure he knew that. But she let it go. Allowed him to bring whatever lightness he needed to.

“I reckon I did,” George revealed, oddly, “I think I knew I’d either spend the rest of my life with you, or chasing after you. And that still stands. No matter what.”

Fred nodded. “Yeah. You’re never getting rid of us, you spooky thing, so you’d better get comfortable with the idea.”

George released her arms, and she reached out, taking Fred by the back of the neck and pulling him against her chest.

“Take me to bed,” she begged, “The both of you, right now. And never, ever let me leave.”

George laughed warily. “Get some more of that Wiggenweld in you—”

“— and then we can talk about what else might fit.”

She mustered a half-smile, shaking her head.

George gave her one last kiss on the cheek, moving to stand. “You stay here with Freddie,” he gently coaxed, “I’m gonna see if I can’t track Lee down to run the shop today.”

“Thank you,” she sighed, letting his hand slip from her fingers as he walked away. “I’m sorry I’m such a—”

_Burden_.

“Such a Junoesque beauty that we find we’re unable to tear ourselves away, even at the expense of our livelihood?” Fred interrupted, taking his brother’s place on the sofa. “Don’t be.”

She laughed weakly. “I’m not _Junoesque_. You can’t be Junoesque if you’re a skeleton, darling, you’re just confused because I’m _tall_. Where did you even learn that word?”

“You know, it’s really hot when you punch holes in my nice compliments like that, O,” he chuckled, dragging her into his arms, “That really gets me hard.”

“I was also _condescending_ , you realize,” she smiled up at him, “That’s like when I _talk down_ to you.”

Fred laughed explosively. “Are you trying to wind me up?”

George forced himself to leave, heading down into the shop. He could still taste her tears on his lips. It was painful, tugging at his heart in a way he’d never felt before. But it was something he hoped never to forget, for as long as he lived.

With a wave of his wand, he conjured a leaping, silver coyote, and it disappeared through the shuttered window of the shop. A few minutes later, Lee Jordan Apparated to his side with a crack.

“Sorry about this, mate,” George sighed, giving him a quick embrace, “We’ve had something come up.”

He nodded, concern etched into his face. “Yeah, your wolf said as much. Anything serious?”

He rubbed his fingers into his temples. “It’s O, she… She’s had something horrible happen.”

“Blimey, is she alright?”

“She’s alive, I ‘spose. We’ve got her upstairs. She… Bloody hell, Lee, she was there when they killed Dumbledore.”

He blanched. “Are you serious?”

George nodded bitterly. “And the Lestranges did a number on her, afterwards. She… She just needs us today.”

Lee waved him off. “Don’t worry about it, mate. I can run things.”

George put a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks. Call whoever else you need, but I don’t think it’ll be busy. Hogwarts isn’t out for another week or so. And hey, come up for supper tonight, yeah? I’ll bring you down some tea.”

“You sure that’ll be alright?” he asked, opening the shutters on the windows with a casual flick of his wand, “I don’t want to impose.”

“Don’t worry about it,” George dismissed, “She’ll be glad to see you.”

Lee gave him an animated salute, taking his place behind the counter. “Aye-aye, captain. I’ll keep ‘er running ship shape.”

George smiled. “Thanks, mate. You’re doing us a huge favor.”

With that, he turned, and made his way back up the stairs, just as the shop began to come to life at Lee’s command.

“Georgie, _save_ me from this woman,” Fred begged when he re-entered the room. The pair were seated at the kitchen table, then, breakfast spread between them.

“No, you don’t need _saving_!” Ophelia laughed, reaching a tattooed hand across the table for him, which he animatedly denied.

“What’s she done to you now?” George probed, sitting down with them.

“Tell her that if she wants to work in the shop, she has to abide by the uniform,” he insisted, “Burgundy suit, and yes, that means _trousers_ —”

“ _Trousers_?” she parroted, incredulous.

“I even told her she could choose the color of her own necktie, as I was feeling generous.”

“Bla—”

“ _Not_ black, you lunatic!” he scolded, jabbing a finger towards her.

She tossed her head back and laughed. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Fred Weasley, I will _not_ spend the rest of my life flogging your nonsense, down there!”

“ _Nonsense_?” they repeated.

“Yes, _nonsense_!” she doubled down, “The two of you deal, quite deliberately, in _nonsense_!”

“ _Yeah, I ‘spose that’s true_ ,” they conceded, exchanging proud smiles.

“Well, then, what are you going to do, for the rest of your life?” Fred needled, “Skate by on being a French Princess?”

“I plan to lay around your flat naked, all day, until you finish with your _nonsense_ and fuck me,” she announced, masking the fact that his comment had struck a nerve.

“Listen,” George interjected, feigning severity, “We’re doing our best to make an honest woman out of you, here. It’s time for you to meet us halfway.” Inwardly, he was relieved beyond description that Fred had gotten her laughing again.

“I’m a lost cause,” she announced, leaning her head down onto the table and casting her lovers a coy glance, “I shan’t be domesticated by the likes of you; I’m just as dodgy as they come.”

“ _We know_.”

“But that’s why we love you, darling—”

“—because _we’re_ as dodgy as they come!”

She laughed genuinely, shaking her head.

“Oi,” Fred elbowed his brother, “You want some breakfast?”

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”

Fred stood, returning to the stove. “You manage to track Lee down?”

“Yeah. Told him he could come up for supper, after.”

Ophelia smiled. “It’ll be nice to see him,” she said, “I’ve rather missed running about with you lot.”

“Oh?” George prodded, “The two of us not enough for you anymore?”

She rolled her eyes. “The two of you are _too much_ for me, that’s why I need Lee to come up here and help share the burden!”

George feigned offense, sputtering in disbelief. “Come over here and say that to my face, Lestrange!”

She stood without hesitation, stepping around the table. She threw a leg over his lap, settling in on top of him. She ran her hands up the sides of his long neck, leaning in close and nipping lightly at his nose.

“You… Are _too_ much,” she giggled.

“You trying to wind me up? Is that it?” He nosed her jaw back and tentatively pressed his lips to her tattooed throat.

“Maybe I am,” she whispered, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “What are you going to do about it?”

He took rough hold of her thighs, standing to set her on the edge of the kitchen table. She had no choice but to cling to him, which is precisely what he’d intended. With feather-light fingertips, he untied her dressing gown, slipping a hand against the bare skin of her narrow ribcage. ( _Don’t look at the tattoos, don’t look at the tattoos_.)

“I dunno what I’m _going_ to do,” he whispered, lips brushing against hers, “But I know what I _want_ to do…”

“Oi!” Fred kicked the table leg, knocking the pair off balance, “Off the bloody table!”

Ophelia countered, “I don’t have to listen to you!”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to listen to _him_ , either.” He slid George’s plate over towards them. “Eat that, I made it with _love_.”

With a wry smile, she took up the fork, offering George a sausage from the plate. He opened his mouth comically wide, taking a ravenous bite, and she laughed.

“You two,” Fred shook his head, “Are bloody _sickening_.”

George laughed with his mouth full. “Always have been—”

With a smile, she finished, “—Always will be.”


	13. Juvenile Delinquent Wrecks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys. This is me peaking as a writer. It literally does not get any better. This is my favorite thing I've ever written ever, ever, ever. So adjust your expectations accordingly.

Her mood waxed and waned throughout the day. At times, she would sit out on the porch, hiding from the rain beneath the wide awning while she delicately clung to a long, black cigarette. At times, she’d let her voice rise softly from her throat, singing Irish pub songs to the twins’ delight. But more than once, she found herself curled up in the arms of one or both of her lovers, weeping softly as she mourned her own gruesome mutilation, and the irreplaceable life that had been lost.

When evening fell, the twins put dinner on the stove, and the warm smell filled the flat. Fred set a David Bowie record playing in the sitting room, and the trio danced barefoot in the red-orange glow of the sunset as it streamed through the windows. The twins twirled her back and forth between them, breathing life and laughter into her with each kiss they planted on her lips. She’d found a long black skirt hidden away in some forgotten corner of their dresser; three-paneled, buckled together at her hips. It billowed out around her as she danced, gracefully sweeping against the floor. The high slits offered Fred and George the occasional tantalizing glimpses of her legs, and they stole as many hungry touches as they could. The simple, strapless black top she wore left every single one of her new tattoos exposed, but it was her smile that they found themselves riveted by. Like a rare flower, finally bursting from bud to bloom before their eyes.

A knock sounded from the front door.

“That’ll be Lee,” George announced, over the music.

Fred tugged Ophelia into a quick kiss before going to answer it. Lee greeted him with a violent embrace when he opened the door.

“Thanks for having me up!” he said genuinely, “What are we eating? It smells fantastic, so I know your French princess had nothing to do with it.”

“Hey, listen—” Fred whispered furtively, “Maybe don’t bring them up right away, yeah?”

Lee stood on his toes, craning his neck to look over Fred’s shoulder. “Don’t bring what up?”

At that precise moment, George lowered the volume of the music with a casual wave of his wand, and Lee caught sight of their companion.

“Bloody hell, Ophelia!” he remarked, wide-eyed, “Where did all _that_ come from?”

Fred swore under his breath. George slipped a protective arm around her waist, pulling her close to him. But, to his shock, she responded before he could tell Lee off.

“Oh, you know,” she shrugged, “I went in to get ‘Fred’ and ‘George’ tattooed on my arse cheeks, and they just kept going.”

He frowned. “Not ‘Lee’ on your lower back?”

“ _Easy_!” The twins scolded in unison.

Fred punched him on the shoulder. “That’s the love of our lives you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, O,” he laughed, “You know I love you. Hey, I nearly forgot, I brought you something!” He disappeared back out the door for a moment, and returned holding a large, metal box. One side of it was black glass, with dials and buttons along the edges. A pair of long wires stuck out from the top.

“What the hell is that?” Ophelia marveled aloud.

The trio answered in excited unison, “ _It’s a television!”_

“Lee, you’re a _diamond_!” Fred praised, absolutely thrilled, “We’re gonna have loads of fun with that, thanks!”

“Think of it as a late housewarming gift,” he said, lowering it to the coffee table with what seemed like great effort. Perhaps it was extremely heavy.

Ophelia was still confused. Clearly, it was some sort of Muggle device, but she couldn’t for the life of her determine its purpose. “What… What does it _do_?”

“You watch stuff on it,” George explained, though that didn’t help very much.

She was bewildered. “Watch… what?”

“It’s like a really long photograph with sound,” Fred clarified, tapping at the pane of glass, “It shows up on here. And it doesn’t loop, the people just keep doing different stuff for hours and hours. And sometimes it’s not even real people, it can be drawings, too. It’s meant to be the Muggles’ favorite thing in the world, they just sit and look at it all day.”

“And it doesn’t even talk to you, like a painting,” George added, “You can shout at it all you want, and it fully ignores you!”

Lee gathered his brow. “Yeah, that’s not a bad way to describe it, actually. But it’s more fun than you lot make it sound.”

Ophelia shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Dad has one, but he can’t get it to work,” George informed her.

“Well, we can try and get it set up after dinner,” Lee announced, “It’ll make more sense once you see it in action. Hey, do you lot have any ale or anything? I’ve had a hard day’s work, down there, pulling your weight!”

George rolled his eyes, pressing one last kiss to Ophelia’s temple. “Come on, then, you prat.” He beckoned for Lee, leading him away into the kitchen.

Fred took his brother’s place, kissing her on the forehead. “Good girl,” he murmured, a hint of pride in his voice. “Don’t let him get to you with that rubbish, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

She cast him a sad smile, swaying slightly to the music as he held her. “You think I ought to do that? Get your names branded on my arse?”

“I’ll put a mark on your arse,” he snarled playfully, pressing his nose against hers.

She laughed, snaking her arms up around his neck and pulling him into a deep kiss. They swayed back and forth, holding one another close.

David Bowie sang, “ _Well, Billy rapped all night about his suicide,_

_How he’d kick it in the head when he was twenty-five._

_Sweet child, don’t wanna stay alive when you’re twenty-five_.”

He placed one hand on her waist, holding the other out expectantly. She took it, placing a hand on his shoulder, and he began to lead her through a dance.

“ _Television man is crazy,_

(For the first time, she recognized that word.)

_Saying we’re juvenile delinquent wrecks,_

_Oh, man, I need T.V. when I’ve got T. Rex.”_

She threw her head back and laughed. He twirled her extravagantly, before yanking her back into his arms.

“ _All the young dudes,_

_Carry the news!”_

His face split into a wide grin. “I love seeing you smile.”

She spun around, pressing her back into his chest, so his arms were crossed around her. Her eyes fell closed as she leaned into him, swaying back and forth to the music.

“It’s all for you,” she said, “It’s only ever been for you.”

He leaned down and pressed his nose into her neck. “I love you.”

She smiled. “I love you too.”

“ _Now_ who’s bloody sickening?” George needled from the kitchen.

“Honestly,” Lee chimed in, “They turn into something else when you’re about, Ophelia. I don’t know what it is you do to them.”

Fred smiled serenely, leaning his cheek down onto the top of her head. “And you never will, Lee.”

.

.

.

After dinner, the boys set about fiddling with the television. They were crowded around it on the floor, Lee confidently leading the charge and ordering the twins around. They’d taken the back panel off of it, to expose a tangle of multicolored strings. Lee had brought with him a dizzying array of Muggle tools, which Ophelia combed through with mild interest as she smoked in her high-backed chair. Occasionally, he’d ask her to hand him something, but the tools all had the strangest names. _Adjustable Spanner_ and _Wire Stripper_ and _Phillip’s Head Screw-Driver_ , she couldn’t keep them straight.

“Why isn’t it working, then?” she probed idly.

“It’s electrical, and there aren’t any outlets in here,” Lee explained, rifling through the tangle of strings, “So we need to connect it to a different power source.”

“What’s _electrical_? Does it have something to do with the sound, like electric guitars?”

“Er… I dunno how to explain it.”

“It’s like lightening,” George said, “Lightening is electrical. And Muggles use it to fuel their lights and their televisions and their radios.”

“And guitars,” Fred helpfully confirmed.

“They even have electrical record players.”

“Muggles use lightening for fuel?” She scoffed, “That just sounds made-up. How do they manage to catch it and hold it?”

“Electricity isn’t just in lightening,” Lee struggled to articulate, “That’s just electricity you can see and hear. But it’s nearly everywhere; it’s actually what makes your heart beat.”

She bristled at the very suggestion. “There’s no Muggle lightening in _my_ heart, thank you very much.”

Lee rolled his eyes, muttering, “Christ, we _are_ pure-blood, aren’t we?”

“Lay off, Lee,” George chided, “It’s not her fault.”

The twins held the back panel onto the television while Lee re-attached it using the Phillip’s Head Screw-Driver.

“So, how does it work, then?” she pressed, “Once you get the electrical in it.”

“Well, usually, you can just plug everything into the wall,” Lee explained, holding up two of the long wires that stuck out the back, “The electricity moves from place to place through these cords. This one gives it power, and this one is meant to connect to a cable dish on the roof.”

“A _what_?” She was picturing a dinner plate piled high with the multicolored strings, like spaghetti.

“Er…” He was beginning to flounder. “I dunno. It doesn’t matter, anyway, since these walls don’t have electricity, and you lot don’t have a cable dish. But, we’ve hooked it up to a battery, so now it has electricity. And, luckily, this is a really old-fashioned television, so these—” He pointed to the stiff wires on top. “— they’re called rabbit ears, they pick up signals from all the way in outer space, and bring the pictures down into the box.”

She was baffled. “Pull the other one, Lee. Rabbit’s ears find pictures from outer space? What’s up there that’s making pictures?”

“David Bowie,” Fred confidently informed her.

She gathered her brow. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Stop confusing her,” George chuckled, “It’s not David Bowie, love. People down here on Earth make the pictures, and then bounce them off of these electrical dynamos up in outer space so they can get sent all over the world.”

She straightened up, taking a haughty drag from her cigarette. “You three are just trying to trick me, and I won’t stand for it.”

“ _We are not!”_ the twins defended in unison.

“Well, Fred is,” Lee allowed. He pressed a big button on the front of the television, and the black glass suddenly lit up. But there was no picture, just a jumble of grey nonsense, and an accompanying cacophony of horrible noise. Ophelia clapped her hands over her ears, but the boys cheered, high-fiving each other.

Lee turned a dial, and the noise quieted.

“Is that it, then?” she asked, “That’s what it does? Why can’t I see the pictures? Do you have to be a Muggle to see it?”

“No,” Lee tiredly informed her, “We’ve got to move these things around until a picture appears. We have to search for it.”

As they set about bending the rabbit ears back and forth, Ophelia couldn’t help but wonder if all of this was just a big, elaborate prank. All of it just sounded too far-fetched. Cable dishes and lightening in a box and pictures from outer space. The scrambled, grey nonsense warped and changed, but it still wasn’t anything she could recognize.

After a few minutes, she asked, “How long is this meant to take?”

“Ophelia!” Lee called out in a frustrated singsong, “If you’re not gonna be supportive, then why are you here?”

She shrugged, picking up one of the Muggle tools. “Morbid curiosity.”

“ _You’re a morbid curiosity_ ,” the twins chorused, before exchanging self-satisfied grins.

“Honestly, Lee,” she condescended, “Just admit that you can’t fix it, and spare me the—”

Fred interrupted loudly. “I hear Denmark’s lovely this time of year, George!”

“Yes,” he corroborated, “And just _full_ of eligible, middle-aged Lords!”

“Oh, shut up.” She settled back into her chair, quietly indignant. “I hate all that Denmark rubbish.”

The boys kept working, beginning to snipe at one another in frustration as they fiddled with the wires. And just when she was about to give up and find something else to do, the picture suddenly appeared.

“Oh my god!” she cried, sitting forward.

There was an old man on the television, frantically twisting dials and pressing buttons on some kind of massive machine. Lightening was crackling all around him, even though he seemed to be indoors. She noted, with an odd rush of self-satisfaction, that this meant the machine was _electrical_. The perspective on the man kept changing, as he flicked switches and pulled levers. It was quite disorienting. Lee turned a dial, and the sound got louder. There was thrilling music playing in the background, as the man checked his various screens and readouts.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, “Lee, what’s happening?”

“Ah, this is the Doctor Who movie,” he realized, sitting down on the couch, “The show’s alright, but this is complete rubbish. We ought to find something else. Monty Python, hell, you lot would _love_ Monty Python!”

Ophelia opened her mouth to speak, but Lee interrupted.

“It’s got nothing to do with snakes.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling rather like she’d been tricked.

“Come on,” he prodded, “This is rubbish, you only _think_ it’s good because it’s the only—”

“ _No_!” the trio shouted.

He laughed. “Alright, then, settle down.”

Fred, George, and Ophelia were, for lack of a better term, spellbound. Eyes fixed on the screen, George nudged Ophelia over in her chair, tugging her up into his lap. The man on the television was running around what looked like the inside of his house. There were lit candles everywhere, and a library.

Then the picture changed, to show a blue Police Call Box that seemed to be hurtling through outer space. It was Muggle stuff, but the trio recognized it. There was one near the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry.

“What’s that there for?” Fred demanded, taking his place beside Lee.

“It’s a time machine in disguise,” Lee told him, “That bloke from earlier is inside it right now, he’s a time traveler.”

Oddly enough, it was the first thing that made perfect sense to Ophelia. She absorbed it all with wide-eyed fascination.

“Is he a wizard?” she asked.

“He’s like what Muggles think wizards are, yeah,” Lee confirmed.

_They’re not too far off_ , she mused. _I could make a house in a Call Box and time travel in it, if I wanted to._

The scene suddenly changed, and three young men were running through some city streets at night. They were being chased by a car. A caption along the bottom of the picture said _San Francisco, 1999_.

“Does that mean this is meant to take place in the future?” George asked quietly.

“I think so,” Ophelia corroborated, “And in _America_ , of all ghastly places.”

The car cornered the men in an alley. And, all of a sudden, they seemed to be pointing at the car and setting off explosions from their hands, sending quick beams of white light towards it. Sparks were flying everywhere.

“Do they have wands?” Ophelia nearly shouted, all but leaping out of her seat for her intense interest.

George dragged her back down into the chair. “I can’t bloody see when you do that.”

Lee tossed his head back and laughed. “No! Those are guns. Muggle weapons. And it’s against the law to just fire them off at each other like that, in the middle of the street. That’s how people get murdered.”

“So, these are meant to be serious criminals, then?” Fred asked, gathering his brow in disapproval.

“Yeah, like Ophelia,” George jibed.

“Shut _up_ , George!”

Lee sighed. “Oh my god, will you lot just please watch?”

The car retreated, seemingly frightened off by the explosions, but then more men appeared.

“Ah, they have a guns, too!” George cried, pointing at the screen.

Lee laughed. “ _’Guns’_ is plural, mate, keep up.”

“Ehh, I can’t bloody see when you do that!” Ophelia mocked, shoving his arm back down.

Lee was beside himself, more entertained by his friends’ reactions than he’d _ever_ been by a television. The trio watched the men fire their guns at each other, watched the dark alley get torn apart by their crude, Muggle spells. And then it seemed to get very windy, and the blue Call Box appeared with them.

“Oh, it’s the wizard!” Ophelia cried, clapping her hands, “He’ll sort it!”

The Muggles fired their guns at the box, but it was entirely impervious to such a barbaric assault. But when the old man stepped out of his time machine, and they pointed the guns at him, he fell to the ground.

“ _NO_!” the trio shouted in unison, completely transfixed.

“No, Lee, that’s not _fair_!” Ophelia argued, “You can’t kill a wizard with a stupid Muggle weapon like that!”

“Hey, don’t shout at me about it!” he defended, “I didn’t write this rubbish!”

The twins silenced them both with a forceful, “ _Shh_!”

When the old man gasped out his feeble, last words, Ophelia became completely distraught. “No, and he’s English, as well?” she whined, “Oh, you simply _can’t_ —”

All at once, the picture faded out, and the words DOCTOR WHO appeared on the screen in big, blue letters. A disembodied voice announced, “Doctor Who: The Movie will return on BBC Worldwide, after these messages.”

“What messages?” George demanded, “What’s that mean?”

“They’re just gonna show a load of adverts,” Lee dismissed with a wave of his hand, “You lot really want to watch this rubbish?”

“ _Yes_!” they insisted.

“Alright, alright!” He laughed, settling back into the couch. Lee Jordan knew that he was in for a long, tiresome night.

.

.

.

When Lee had gone, the trio set about tidying the kitchen. George got to work on the dishes, while Fred and Ophelia cleared the table by hand. They knew it would’ve been faster to use magic. But they were in no rush, instead lingering in the quiet contentment of each other’s company.

The movie (as it was apparently called) had been fascinating. The wizard from the beginning came back to life, but he was young and handsome. Ophelia had been entirely inconsolable at the suggestion of his having made a Horcrux. Poor Lee had to work very hard to reassure her that “The Doctor” would _never_ make a Horcrux, it’s just that Muggles don’t know what they’re talking about. She’d been rather unsatisfied with the explanation, but hung on till the end. She’d even become quite emotional when the handsome, young wizard kissed his Muggle girlfriend goodbye beneath a sky full of fireworks, before leaving again in his time machine. It had been an enlightening foray into the world of Muggle entertainment, but she knew she’d have nightmares of wizards being killed with guns.

Ophelia perched on the now-clear table, pouring herself a glass of wine. “It was nice to see Lee,” she said with a smile, “Even though he brought that dodgy Muggle thing in here. I’d forgotten what a circus the three of you are, when you’re together.”

“ _I’d_ forgotten how badly you and Lee wind each other up,” Fred laughed, “When you really get going at each other, you’re like a pair of old ladies.”

“It’s that _television_ that does my head in,” she justified, casting it a wary glance, “I don’t know if I like it very much, I feel like it’s smarter than I am.”

“It’s Muggle stuff,” Fred dismissed with a wave, “You could turn it inside out with a flick of your wand.”

“She’ll do no such thing! _Hey_!” George suddenly scolded, splashing her with water from the basin, “You’d better watch yourself, Lestrange. Don’t you remember? Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes maintains a zero-tolerance policy for _sitting_ on the _table_.”

“Actually…” Fred stepped up in front of her, parting her legs and wrapping an arm around her waist. “I’ve rather decided I like you up here.”

“Is that so?” she teased, taking a sip of wine.

“Yeah, it is.” He confiscated her glass, downing the rest in a single gulp before tossing it carelessly over his shoulder.

“ _Oi_!” Without so much as a backward glance, George flicked his wand and stopped it mid-air, bringing it straight into his open hand.

Ophelia rounded on Fred, mouth agape. “ _That_ wasn’t very gentlemanly!” she scoffed, giving him a playful swat on the chest.

“Hush, you.”

With that, he drew her into a hard kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you seen that Dr. Who movie?? It's so, so bad. I'm with Lee on this one, honestly.


	14. The Wind That Carries Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say, "Make it sad again?"

The following morning, Ophelia was wrenched from sleep by a burning in her left forearm.

_One day,_ she realized with a jolt of anguish, _that’s all I get. Once single day_.

The twins were folded in on either side of her; still naked, still sleeping. She would let them lie. She rose silently, laying soft kisses on their cheeks, pulling the blanket up over them again. As quietly as she could manage, she re-dressed. There was a strange ache in all of her newly-branded skin that made the feeling of fabric more than a little uncomfortable. It hurt more than it had the previous day, she wasn’t sure why.

The last thing she did before she left was scrawl a hasty note on a scrap of parchment, folding it neatly and leaving it on George’s nightstand. She leaned down to kiss them each one more time, whispering soft thanks in their ears. Telling them they were loved.

The tattoo on her forearm gave another stab of insistent, distracting pain, and she knew she needed to leave. So, with that, she backed away from the warm, inviting bed. She closed her eyes, so she would not have to see them disappear. And with a heavy heart, she turned on the spot, and evanesced into a cloud of black smoke.

The sound of her Disapparation woke the twins instantly, and they both sat bolt-upright. The lingering wisps of smoke in the room told them all they needed to know.

Fred fell backwards again, casting his forearm over his eyes. “God _dammit_ ,” he whispered.

George took note of the parchment on his nightstand, snatching it up hurriedly. “Hey—” he elbowed Fred, “She left a note.”

He shook his head bitterly. “She always does.”

George unfolded the paper, laying back down to hold it in Fred’s view.

_My loves,_

_I'm so very sorry. I've been called away, and didn't want to wake you. Thank you for a beautiful day, and a beautiful night. I promise, I'll come and see you again, just as soon as I can manage. You're dear to me as life itself, my darlings. Everything good and beautiful and worth fighting for lies in you. Thank you, thank you, thank you._

_Ophelia_

George sighed deeply, letting the parchment flutter down onto his chest. “I reckon she thinks she owes us,” he murmured, “That’s why all the bloody apologies, all the time.”

“I reckon you’re right. But that’s rubbish,” Fred dismissed, snatching up the pillow she’d been using and rolling away from his brother. “She doesn’t owe us a damn thing.” He settled the pillow in against his chest, wrapping his arms around it in a quick, frustrated gesture. It still smelled like her hair. After a long span of silence, he added, “Loving that girl is like loving the dead.”

The corner of George’s mouth twitched with the suggestion of a smile, fading as quickly as it had come. “I’m worried about her, Freddie,” he murmured.

“I know you are.”

“What do you reckon she’s doing, right now?” _Maybe she’s in the same room as You-Know-Who, lying to him to save our lives._

He sighed deeply. “I dunno, George. Best not to think about it. Go back to sleep.”

_Maybe the Death Eaters are making her torture someone._

_What if they’re making her kill someone?_

_Has Ophelia killed someone?_

“I can’t.”

He couldn’t stop thinking about her warning _. Everything is going to start speeding up, now. Everything is going to change._ And she was right there, in the middle of it.

_My darling, we’re all in danger_.

Impulsively, George rolled onto his side, and leaned his forehead against his brother’s bare back, between his shoulder blades. All at once, his body relaxed.

Fred craned his neck to look at him. “What are you doing?”

“C’mon, don’t make it weird,” he grumbled defensively, settling in against his twin. “You know it’s not.”

Fred sank back into his pillow, closing his eyes again. “Alright.”

“Thanks.”

This had been George’s strange little routine, when they were kids. He’d done it from the time they’d only had one bed; before Bill and Charlie had left home. Even after they had two beds, Fred would still occasionally wake up to find him nestled in behind him like this. Usually after they’d gotten in trouble, or overheard their parents talking in hushed voices about money. And then, when they went off to Hogwarts for the first time, it made a strong resurgence. George would sneak across the dormitory in the middle of the night, crawl into his big brother’s bed, pull the curtains, and settle in behind him. Forehead between his shoulder blades, just like he was doing now. It had stopped, of course, after a few months. He hadn’t been so scared of school, anymore, and decided he’d outgrown it. And despite the dismissive way he’d come to react to it, Fred had sort of missed the quiet comfort. O didn’t know anything about this, why would she? It was their silly, secret, childhood twin stuff. And it had been eight years. They weren’t children, anymore.

Nevertheless, Fred had to admit: he felt a lot more relaxed, now, with George’s forehead between his shoulder blades again.


	15. She Speaks the Language

Shaking with quiet apprehension, Ophelia descended the cold, stone steps to the Malfoys dungeon. Wormtail was waiting, leaning against the barred door. He cowered, slightly, when her shadow fell over him.

“Give me the key,” she commanded, hand outstretched.

“But the Dark Lord—”

“— is the one who sent me down here,” she sniped, “ _Idiot_. Hand it over.”

He reluctantly produced it from his pocket, and she snatched it away. She dismissed him with a quick hiss and a jerk of her head, and he scurried up the stairs.

When she stepped up to the door, the first thing she noticed was Ollivander. He seemed to be no more than a pile of rags, huddled against the wall. At least he was sleeping. She could see him breathing, slow and deep. Small mercies, she supposed.

A weak, shaking voice sounded from the corner. “I know you.”

Ophelia flicked her wand, sending an orb of light up to float between the bars. Huddled in the back of the cell was none other than Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies professor. She was beaten and bloody, with tear streaks through the grime on her cheeks.

“I know you,” she repeated, rubbing her eyes and squinting up at the light, “You used to be friends with Arthur Weasley’s boys. The twins.”

Ophelia remained silent, brow gathering.

“I remember…” She exhaled weakly. “They would drag you all around the castle, with them, climbing through the walls. It… It drove Minerva mad.”

“I know it did,” she finally murmured.

“What was your name?” she asked distantly, “Juliet?”

“Ophelia.” It was Ollivander who had answered. He was sitting up against the wall, head hanging back limply. “I wonder, Madame Lestrange, if you appreciate the cruel irony of having my own wands turned so violently against me.”

She shook her head weakly. “Not this one.”

He exhaled a thin laugh. “Whatever you mean to do with us, I suggest you get it over with. I don’t expect we’ll last much longer, down here.”

With a kind of unconscious resolve, Ophelia slipped the key into the lock, and pushed the barred door open. The pair of prisoners sat up straighter, recoiling from her as she crossed the room to kneel between them.

“Listen to me,” she implored quietly, “I can’t get you out, just yet, but I will. I promise.”

A hollow laugh rattled up from Ollivander’s chest. “What?”

“The Order knows you’re here.”

Charity Burbage began to quietly weep, shaking her head back and forth in staunch denial.

“This is a joke,” Ollivander dismissed, searching curiously across her face, “Leave us in peace.”

“Please,” Ophelia begged, “What can I do? What do you need? I’ll bring food and water, Wiggenweld if I can get my hands on it, I—”

“Kill me,” Charity suddenly blurted.

“Charity,” Ollivander scolded.

“Kill me,” she repeated, “Kill me, just kill me, I can’t do this for one more moment, I just want to _die_!”

“ _Charity_!”

“Professor please,” Ophelia begged, shaking hands hovering over the frantic woman, “Please, they’ll hear!”

At that, she wailed, “Have you no mercy at all? _If you won’t kill me, then what good are you?”_

Ophelia’s eyes flitted upwards, where encroaching footsteps could be heard.

Ollivander was begging with her, “Charity, _be quiet_!”

“Please, Professor, I—”

With wild eyes, Charity lunged for Ophelia. “ _KILL ME!”_

Ophelia stumbled backwards, breathless and terrified, and sprinted from the dungeon. The barred door closed with a bone-rattling _clang_.

_“HAVE YOU NO MERCY AT ALL?”_

“Listen to me, I’m here to help you! I promise!” Ophelia implored, though it was entirely inaudible beneath Charity’s continued screams, “I’ll bring you food soon, Professor! Just hold on a little longer!”

At that, Ollivander leapt to his feet and sprinted for the door. With the eyes of a madman, he thrust his arm between the bars and took a handful of Ophelia’s dress.

“If you’re mean to help us,” he panted raggedly, “Then help us.”

“I will!” she impressed, “I will, I—”

“Listen to me,” he interrupted in a shrill whisper, glancing back at his wailing cellmate, “He needs me alive, do you understand? _Me_ , not her!”

Ophelia wrenched from his grip, stumbling back in a daze.

The words were dark and emphatic as he implored, “She won’t last. Not the way they’re torturing her.”

Wide-eyed, Ophelia nodded.

“Put a stop to it,” he begged, “For her sake.”

“Keep my secret,” she parried, beginning to retreat.

“I will.”

Still shaking, she crammed the key into her pocket and hurried back up the stairs, only to find Lucius Malfoy standing in wait.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he snapped.

Ophelia stilled in an instant, drawing herself up to her full, imposing height. “Whatever I want.”

Azkaban had taken a very visible toll on Lucius, and his condition had deteriorated even further since his return. His hair seemed to have lost some of its characteristic, platinum sheen, and dark crescents of purple hung heavy and low beneath his eyes. She rarely saw him, as he spent most of his time locked away in his bedroom, but on the odd occasions when he did appear, he wore only his slate-grey Death Eater’s robes.

Trying to convince himself, she supposed.

A booming voice sounded from down the hall. “Lucius!” It was her father. “You worm, go and sulk somewhere else.”

He scurried away without so much as a glance in Rabastan’s direction.

“What were you doing, down there?” her father asked, peering over her shoulder as he approached.

“Playing with the prisoners,” she answered glibly, relinquishing the key to him. On cue, Charity Burbage wailed once more. Ophelia forced a smile. “She gave me detention, once.”

Rabastan barked out a laugh. “That’s my girl!” And then he moved to walk past her, down the stairs.

“No!” Ophelia blurted.

He froze, rounding on her. “ _No_?”

“If we do much more to them now, they’ll die,” she quickly corrected, “The Dark Lord wants them alive.”

For a moment, he was afraid she’d blown her own cover. With bated breath, she waited the length of one heartbeat, then two, then three, and then—

“ _N’importe quoi_ ,” he scoffed, retreating from the staircase and pocketing the key, “We’ve other business to attend to now, anyway. Come.”

She jogged up beside him. “Why? What are we doing?”

Rabastan smiled. “It’s time you wore your mother’s robes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends part 3. You guys are amazing, and I love you all so much. Part 4 coming... NOW!!


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